One Small Leap For Sam
by ordinaryguy2
Summary: New chapter! This is a Quantum Leap/Buffy/Lord Of Illusions crossover. Sam finds that he has leaped into private eye Harry D'amour who is hired by the Council of Watchers to find a certain young girl who is capable of amazing things.
1. Chapter 1

From:  
>To:<br>Sent: 8/30/2011 7:43:24 P.M. Eastern Daylight Time  
>Subj: New story<p>

**ONE SMALL LEAP FOR SAM**

by Carycomic

_Disclaimer: this is a QUANTUM LEAP/BTVS/LORD OF ILLUSIONS crossover, partially based on the 1993 made-for-video romantic comedy, ANYTHING FOR LOVE. So, all recognizable characters and/or concepts are owned by/enriching somebody else._

**Chapter 1.**

**September 13, 1993**

**(Sam Beckett's p.o.v.)**

In the close to five years I've been mentally leaping around within my own life time, my mind has landed in some pretty peculiar host bodies. A pregnant woman; my own great-grandfather; even a genetically compatible chimpanzee! But, in each instance, two things had remained pretty consistent.

Recurring partial amnesia about my own life (_affectionately referred to as "the Swiss Cheese Effect"_); and the neuro-holographic presence of my good friend, Al.

Officially, he was Admiral Albert Calavici, USN Reserve. And, as a rule, he would materialize soon after my arrival (_in whatever past time-period I was to conduct my next karmic mission_) as a hologram attuned strictly to my brainwaves and optic nerves. Hence, only I could see and hear him.

A situation that had earned me strange looks from passers-by, native to that time-period, more than once!

This time around, I had leaped into the body of a man who bore a superficial resemblance to me. One who was driving what I quickly determined to be a modified 1969 Quandt Group Amphicar across what I quickly recognized as Lake Tahoe, Nevada. When I say "_modified_," I mean it had apparently been souped up so it could be driven through the water as fast as a conventional speedboat! And, a good thing, too.

For as it turns out, the amphicar was being chased by what appeared to be the freshwater counterpart of a sea serpent!

"Oh, boy!" I muttered to myself, as I headed for the nearest boat-launching jetty. Which, fortunately for me, already seemed to be crowded with state police officers from both California and Nevada. Needless to add, I came up out of the lake like the proverbial bat out of You-Know-Where. And, that lake monster came right up out of it after me!

That's when I had my second surprise in ten minutes.

A net suddenly enveloped that lake monster, from the bottom up. A metallic wire-mesh net, through which electricity was immediately conducted, stunning the creature into unconsciousness!

That was when I noticed Al sitting in the "_shotgun_" seat.

"Who am I this time, Al?" I hurriedly asked him (_sotto voce_).

Seeing there was no time for the usual pleasantries, Al quickly consulted his data-link. Imagine a PDA (_personal digital assistant_) resembling a Rubix cube as flat as a pancake. Now, imagine that data-link serving as your chief line of communication with a sentient artificial intelligence nicknamed "Ziggy!"

It was by this means that Al provided me with the background information on whomever I had leaped into, and what tragic past event I was there to most likely alter.

"You're name is Harry D'amour. You're a private eye with a penchant for cases involving the occult. And, according to Ziggy, you were hired by the elders of the Washoe Indian tribe to do something about...'_Tahoe_ _Tessie_!' "

"_Tahoe Tessie_" turned out to be nothing more than a genetically engineered saltwater crocodile from Australia! And, according to the real Harry (_whose mind was currently being hosted by my body, back in the Waiting Room at Project: Quantum Leap_), she had been smuggled into the country by the Japanese yakuza as part of some convoluted attempt to take over the Washoe tribal casino!

Their thought had apparently been to convince the tribal elders that she was some ancient water-deity, from their folklore, who was displeased with the casino's presence. And, Al's reaction to this disclosure said it best for both of us:

"Someone in Tokyo must've watched one too many re-runs of _'Scooby Doo, Where Are You?_' "

Half an hour later, after "_Tessie_" had been sedated and air-lifted to the San Diego Zoo, I went up to the bathroom of Harry D'amour's room at the Chateau Descartes Hotel and Casino. When I had finished freshening up, and put on some dry clothes, I found Al waiting for me near the two-person table of the kitchenette. Although, he was not doing so entirely out of politeness. You see, I had been wondering why I hadn't leaped out of Harry, as yet.

And, the stranger that Al was surreptitiously keeping company might be the reason why.

He seemed to favor the color brown. His slacks; his shoes; his trench coat; even the black-banded fedora with the up-turned brim on the right side. All were a shade of brown only slightly darker than his own moustache and beard!

"Mr. Harry D'amour?" he inquired, as he stood up. His accent, unmistakably British.

"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir," I replied (_quoting a line I half-remembered from an old black-and-white swashbuckler_).

He smiled at my old-fashioned formality: "My name is Merrick Jamison-Smythe. And, I would like to retain your services on behalf of the Council of Watchers."

**tbc**


	2. Chapter 2

**One Small Leap For Sam**

**Chapter 2.**

**Sept. 13, 1993**

**Lake Tahoe, NV.**

"Council of Watchers?" I echoed.

He nodded: "It's an offshoot of the Royal Psychical Research Society, based at Oxford University. It was founded in 1945 by Sir Roger Wyndham-Pryce; a former Visiting Professor of Parapsychology at Duke University."

"Heh!" snorted Al: "Sounds more like a club for Peeping Toms."

Even so, he went right to his data-link. Typing instructions to Ziggy to look up everything she could find on this council. Meanwhile, I asked the obvious question, first.

"Why would a psychic research group need the services of a private investigator, Mr. Smythe?"

He smilingly corrected me: "Jamison-Smythe, actually. If it helps, however, just call me '_Merrick_.' As to your question? We are looking for a certain young pre-teen girl. Rumors of the amazing things she's capable of have reached us. And, we'd like to offer her parents a chance to let us school her. To help her...refine her talents. Unfortunately, all we know about her, for certain, is that she and her family live in north-central California. And, the area of private investigation you seem to specialize in has made our chairman deem you the most suitable choice for determining exactly where that might be."

I had a feeling he was lying to me, by omission. To stall for time, though, I told him I'd think about it.

"Are you staying here, at the hotel?" I then asked him. He shook his head.

"I have a temporary abode, down the road, at the Stateline Trailer Park. Unit 437."

"Then, that's where I'll come, when I've made up my mind."

He shrugged: "Very well, Mr. D'Amour."

"Harry," I replied, as I now smilingly corrected him.

"Just so."

I shook hands with Merrick. Then, after shutting the door to the hotel room, I waited a full minute to make sure he was gone.

"Well?" I asked, finally turning to Al.

He looked back at me, with a slightly worried expression on his face.

"I think he's trying to run a number on you, Sam. Most of what he told you was repeated by Ziggy, verbatim. With one exception. During World War II, this Sir Roger was attached to the American branch of some outfit called the D.R.I. And, when she tried to find out what those initials stood for? She got '_access_ _denied! Z+ security clearance, only_!' "

I instinctively gulped as I heard this. Because, the security clearance needed for knowing about the existence of Project: Quantum Leap was only one step below that!

"Z+" translating as: "_Ultra-top secret. Eyes only _(_National Security Council or above_)_."_

**tbc**


	3. Chapter 3

**One Small Leap For Sam**

**Chapter 3.**

**CLUB 2 DETH**

**(LOS ANGELES)**

Ludovic of the Miquot Clan looked like a cross between an iguana and a hedgehog, what with his Mohawk of quills and reptilian facial features. And, he liked to offset his lobster-red skin with a permanent ensemble of yellow turtle-neck, black slacks, and matching shoes. Most of the counter-cultural mortals who frequented his club thought he was merely an extreme Goth. Attributing his features to prosthetic make-up!

Little did they know that he was actually a member of the Order of Teraka. And, that this club was just a money-making front for its local branch. One mortal who did know otherwise was a chubby, elderly white man in a gray business suit that had evidently seen better days. And, as he was escorted into Ludovic's office, the latter smiled in recognition.

"Igor? Igor Getzov! Is that really you?"

"Da! Is good to see you, Ludo, old friend."

The two shook hands, and then sat down.

"It seems like only yesterday that you were the KGB's personal liaison to the Order," remarked the Miquot demon: "And, now, you're head of the Russian Mafia for the entire North American West Coast? Congratulations!"

"Spashiba," replied the Russian: "But, in a way, that is what brings me to you."

"I don't understand."

"I need to retain the Order's services for very discrete job. Tell me; have you ever heard of...Greensword?"

Ludovic shook his head. So, Getzov explained how they were an eco-terrorist splinter group of the Greenpeace movement that had been founded in the wake of the "_Rainbow Warrior_" incident.

"Their name is pun on '_greensward_' (_obsolescent term for artificial turf_). And, their methodology is based on belief that diplomatic moderation is no longer feasible. So, now, they fight fire with fire. Sometimes, literally! For instance; last week, they hijack armored car transporting fish cannery payroll to Sitka, Alaska. You know what they do with money? They incinerate whole pile of it with flamethrower!"

After an awkward pause, Ludovic finally nodded in understanding.

"You want to set an example."

"Da! I want both masterminds and participants hunted down. And, when you catch them? Take your time with them!"

**STATELINE TRAILER PARK,**

**LAKE TAHOE, CALIFORNIA**

Merrick had been a Watcher long enough to develop his own sixth sense as to when he was in the presence of something supernatural. So, the moment he closed the door to Unit 437, he whipped out the cruciform wooden stake (hidden beneath his trenchcoat) and shouted defiantly as he assumed a defensive crouch.

"Relax, old man," declared the young woman reclining on the sofa to his left: "If I was a vampire, you'd be a desiccated husk on the outer doorstep, right now."

"Then, who are you? And, what are you doing here?" he challenged.

"The name's Michelle Webster. I'm an Immortal. And, I've come from the year 2024, seeking your help."

**tbc**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4.**

**CHATEAU DESCARTES HOTEL/CASINO**

**LAKE TAHOE, NEVADA (SEPT. 13, 1993)**

**SAM BECKETT'S P.O.V.**

My fluster was only momentary, as I violently shook my head to regain my original frame of mind.

"OK, Al. Let's try this another way. Have Ziggy start scanning every police and new media database, between here and San Francisco, for reports of _anything_ that might constitute the occurrence of psychic phenomena, over the past twelve months, in this time period. Especially, if it centers around adolescent females! Then, have her cross-check all that against the name..."

"...Merrick Jamison-Smythe," he finished for me, with a grin: "I'm way ahead of you!"

He punched a few more buttons on his data-link. When he was done, the door to the Imaging Chamber slid upward.

"I'll go talk to Harry some more. If nothing else, it'll help kill time while I'm waiting for the results. In the meantime, why don't you kill some time downstairs in the casino? Lord knows, you could use the R&R!"

This time, I was the one who grinned as I snapped to mock-attention and saluted him: "Aye-aye, admiral."

**STATELINE TRAILER PARK, UNIT 437**

"From the future?" exclaimed Merrick: "Do I look like I was born yesterday to you?"

Instead of losing her temper, the young woman who had introduced herself as Michelle Webster simply got off the convertible sofa and assumed a yoga lotus position on the floor. She then withdrew a small quartz crystal sphere from the right inner pocket of her brown leather jacket.

"Ever see one of these before?" she demanded.

Merrick slowly sat down on one of the kitchenette chairs.

"It looks like an ordinary scrying st..."

He was cut off by a brilliant white glow that began to emanate from within the sphere. A glow that subsequently caused a multitude of images to appear in the very air above it. Starting with the image of what appeared to be a heated three-way battle between werewolves, Latin-American paratroopers, and crested reptilian ostriches!

"In 1996, it was discovered that a race of extra-terrestrial beings had set up a base of operations in Mexico, aimed at prepping our world for colonization by their own people. And, that they planned to do so by saturating Earth's ozone layer with ionized balls of methane. Effectively disintegrating it!"

"This led to an unprecedented alliance between the Mexican Kindred and their Garou counterparts. Particularly, the Children of Gaia. It wasn't easy. But, the Mexican base was wiped out. It was discovered shortly afterwards, however, that the ozone layer's disintegration had taken on a life of its own. And, that Earth would be vulnerable to unfiltered ultra-violet radiation by 2012!"

"To rectify this, the Bromley Marks Corporation (a Kindred front) and the Russell Nash Foundation (directed by one Connor Macleod) financed reverse-engineering of the aliens' technology. By 2010, the scientists on their payroll had succeeded in creating the O-Shield. A planet-wide forcefield capable of reflecting the excessive UV rays. But, there was a price; a perpetual state of twilight that allowed the vamps to flourish as never before. Especially, as the O-Shields' generators drew electricity from all other man-made objects powered by it (including electric lights)!"

"By 2024, most of civilization had reverted to a 19th-century level of existence. The only exceptions were Bromley Marks (now known as Shieldcorp), and the Watchers' Council. The latter, to compensate for the obsolescence of only one Slayer at a time, had started recruiting the best of their Potentials for...genetic augmentation. With the success rate being four out of five."

"Good Lord!" muttered Merrick.

Michelle went on to describe how the augmented Potentials (a.k.a. "Chimaerans") were organized into hunter-killer teams. Although, they did not always kill what they hunted. Sometimes, they brought back live (or, at least, undead) captives for interrogation.

"That's how the Council learned that Shieldcorp has instituted a mass-cloning program! Those who can't pay their increasingly exorbitant prices, for running the O-Shield, are thrown into glorified debtors' prisons. And, the wardens of those prisons are farming the inmates out to bio-tech facilities for cloning experiments...aimed at increasing the vamps' global blood-supply. Some groups can't tolerate the thought of that. Groups like the Greensword sept of the Children of Gaia."

"We've learned they're planning a raid against the O-Shield's generator plant. With the intention of blowing it up, and letting the sunshine in. Thereby frying every vamp on the planet at once. The only trouble with that, of course, is that the same thing will happen to all other life on Earth, as well."

**STATELINE TRAILER PARK,**

**LAKE TAHOE, NEVADA**

**(UNIT 437)**

"A fascinating tale, if true," Merrick finally replied: "But, why tell any of it to me?"

"Because, I need your help to prevent it," declared Michelle: "That's why I've astral-projected back through time, and into my pre-Immortal body. There's a tragedy due to occur in one week's time. A tragedy that will result in many fatalities. If I can keep one of those victims alive, it might make the invention of the O-Shield completely unnecessary!"

"What kind of tragedy?" the Englishman demanded (still understandably dubious).

"It involves the Potential you're currently looking for."

**Sam Beckett's p.o.v.**

I only took part of Al's advice. I went down to the casino, but I didn't gamble. Maybe it was a combination of my Midwestern up-bringing and my scientific training. Yet, I knew the only sure thing about gambling is that there's _no such thing_ as a sure thing! So, I went to see a magic act, instead.

I had developed an armchair love for stage magic, ever since I had helped reunite the estranged Spontini family in one of my prior leaps. This magician, in fact, looked like an older version of Harry Spontini. Except, he spoke with a bit of a French accent. And, he billed himself as "Levi Tate!"

"A pun worthy of Al," I had muttered, upon first entering the lounge where this magician was to perform. But, I soon changed my mind, as I saw how skillfully he segued, from one illusion to the next. In fact, I was just about to join the rest of the audience in giving him a standing ovation for a particularly fast variant of Metamorphosis, when an all-too familiar voice remarked:

"Ah! Philip Swann could do it better."

"Don't do that!" I hissed at Al, under my breath.

"Sorry, Sam. I have news that couldn't wait, though."

"What are you talking about?"

"Ziggy was able to cross-reference that data faster than anticipated. Mostly, because she found Merrick Jamison-Smyth's name listed in an obituary!"

"What?"

Al nodded and continued: "What's worse? He was among a couple hundred people who were killed! All of them in a town to the west-by-southwest of here. Dos Pueblos, California."

**tbc **

_A million WHOSE LINE... points to anyone who can name the movies and/or shows I'm pastiching in this chapter._


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**SAM BECKETT'S P.O.V.**

" 'Dos Pueblos, California (pop. 40,000): council/manager government. As the Spanish name implies, it was originally founded as two separate towns; Freestead and New Jordan. Freestead was originally called 'Friestadt' by the German-speaking Mennonites who established it (after splitting off from one of the Russian River settlements farther north) in 1822. While New Jordan was established thirty years later, directly across the San Joaquin River, by Mormon settlers from Utah, under the leadership of Uriah Bentley.' "

When Al had told me that Merrick was going to be killed on Sept. 20, 1993, I was understandably struck speechless for a moment. When I finally regained my voice, I asked him what the circumstances were surrounding this "massacre," as he had called it.

"According to the computer records at the 'Dos Pueblos Herald-Gazette,' " he had replied: "...there was a centennial birthday party being held for Matthew Hamilton; the last surviving doughboy of World War I from that town. The party was being hosted by his son, Jacob Hamilton. And, some of the dead party-crashers were later identified, by the FBI, as members of an eco-terrorist group called Greensword."

"Oh, boy!" I had muttered: "Are these Hamiltons notorious for not being eco-friendly?"

Al had shrugged: "No more so than any other small-town plutocrats."

"What about Merrick? What was he doing there? Or, rather, why will he be there?"

Even after five years of time-traveling, I was still having trouble with tenses.

"According to Ziggy, he was there as a photojournalist."

"What?"

Al grinned: "For the newsletter published by that psychic research group he mentioned."

I couldn't help snorting, sarcastically: "Yeah, right!"

So, at noon the next day, I checked out of the hotel and drove to Dos Pueblos in my (or, rather, Harry D'Amour's) amphicar. _Without_ stopping to tell Merrick!

En route to Dos Pueblos, Al rematerialized in the "shotgun" seat, where he proceeded to give me the history of that particular city (as taken from the database of its local historical society).

" 'The towns merged, in 1893, because neither one was big enough to qualify for a city charter, individually. And, the first city manager was Jacob Bentley. The eldest son of Uriah's youngest wife. He was succeeded, thirty years later, by his son-in-law, Matthew Hamilton. And, Matthew's own son (Jacob Hamilton, Sr.) succeeded him, in 1947.' "

"Now, I see what you meant by 'small-town plutocrats,' " I commented

Al nodded: "Yeah, they've got a real dynasty going there. Even the two local high schools were named after both sides of the family! It hasn't been all peaches and cream, though. Big Jake and his wife (a French war bride; nee Celeste Lavelle) had three children. But, of those three, Elizabeth died of SIDS; and Jake, Junior was...killed in 'Nam."

Neither of us said anything for a minute, as Al was a Vietnam War veteran. Just like my older brother, Tom.

"What's the name of the surviving child?" I finally asked.

"Her name's Emma Stark. Her husband is Brian Stark, and he's...uh-oh!"

"What?" I demanded: "What 'uh-oh?' "

"He's wanted by the FBI. As the leader of Greensword!"

**tbc **


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6.**

**Sam Beckett's p.o.v.**

"He's what?" I echoed, hoping that I'd heard wrong.

"According to his Bureau dossier," said Al: "Brian Stark and Jake Hamilton, Jr, were SEAL teammates in 'Nam. So, when Junior bought the farm, in '68, Brian volunteered to escort the body back stateside. He met Emma Hamilton at the post-funeral reception; they got married, two years later. And, by their seventh anniversary, they had two kids. A son named Kurt, and his younger sister, Marie."

"Then, in 1985, the 'Rainbow Warrior' got scuttled by French naval frogmen, in New Zealand, to keep Greenpeace from protesting a certain nuclear test in French Polynesia. The Greenpeace member inadvertently killed in the process was an old hometown friend of Brian's. And, he took it very personally when those frogmen got extradited, by the French government without ever standing trial back in Paris!"

Al went on to say how this made it easy for Brian Stark to persuade a number of equally resentful Greenpeace members to leave the group and join up with him.

"The rest is criminal history?" I rhetorically asked.

"And, how!" he replied: "But, it looks like they finally went too far. The Friday before Labor Day (1993)? Greensword hijacked an Alaskan fish cannery payroll...and torched it. All six hundred and fifty thousand dollars worth! The only trouble is that payroll was actually freshly-laundered drug money for the Russian Mob!"

"Oh, boy!" I muttered: "If that's the case, then maybe this massacre isn't perpetrated by Greensword. Maybe they're just posthumously framed for it.

Al shrugged: "Could be. A Company spook I used to play poker with once told me that, when it comes to holding grudges, the Russian Mob makes the Italian-American Mafia look positively forgiving by comparison!"

**CHATEAU DESCARTES HOTEL/CASINO**

**LAKE TAHOE, NEVADA**

**(SEPT. 14, 1993)**

Michelle Webster sat in the front passenger seat of the Range Rover as she waited for Merrick to emerge from the hotel lobby. But, she did not have to wait long. And the expression on the Englishman's face spoke volumes.

"He checked out earlier this morning. _Without_ leaving me a message!"

"He must have found out the name and address of that Potential," she replied.

"Perhaps. Yet, if such is the case, why not inform me about it like he said he would?"

"Maybe he discovered she's in some kind of paranormal trouble, and wanted to shoulder the risk all by himself. From what I read of him, in the future, Harry D'Amour was kind of a supernatural danger magnet with Lone Ranger-like tendencies."

"Well, even the bloody Lone Ranger was never really alone," grumbled Merrick: "He bloody well had Tonto bloody well helping him!"

"So, what are you waiting for, Kemo Sabe?" exclaimed the seemingly young brunette, pointing ahead of them: "Let's get going!"

Merrick smiled and nodded: "Right, then. Dos Pueblos, California, here we come!"

**MEANWHILE, IN A CERTAIN BACKSTAGE DRESSING ROOM...**

The reviews for Levi Tate's magic act were wide-ranging. The entertainment critics who praised him called him "Houdini reincarnated as a clone of Michael Lonsdale." While his detractors compared him to Wolfman Jack doing an impression of Christopher Lee as Dracula.

The latter were closer to the truth than they knew. For "Levi Tate" was actually an antitribu vampire of Clan Tremere. One who had been using his sorcerous powers to pose as an ordinary mortal stage magician on behalf of the Order of Teraka!

He was just locking up the last of his suitcases when his identical twin assistants, Jackie and Jill, entered the dressing room.

"The Watcher just took off," they chorused in perfect unison.

Levi Tate looked at them: "In what manner of vehicle?"

"A 1992 Range Rover," replied Jackie.

"Is the Skymaster ready?"

"All fueled up, master," said Jill.

"Then, let's going."

The twin brunettes merely nodded, as they followed him out.

**HAMILTON FAMILY RESIDENCE**

**(DOS PUEBLOS, CALIFORNIA)**

"Celeste? ? ? ?" bellowed Jake Hamilton, Senior, as he came charging into their bedroom. A torn-open envelope in his right hand; and an angry flush on his face.

"You'll never guess who I just got an RSVP from," he sarcastically began: "Your niece, Jessica."

"Oh, Mon Dieu!" she whispered, as she turned around in her vanity table's matching chair.

"How dare you invite her family here when I expressly forbade it!"

Celeste sprang to her feet, and ran to her husband, clasping her hands in a prayer-like fashion as she did so.

"Sil vous plait, mon amour!" she begged: "Please, let them come. She and her son are all I have left of Alexandre!"

For a few tense moments, her husband said nothing. Then, he dramatically inhaled, just before replying.

"All right. But, the very first second that worthless husband of hers starts throwing one of his drunken fits (which I regard as a case of 'when,' not ' if ') they are out of here. And, I mean, permanently! All subsequent reunions between you and them will have to be at their house. Because, they will no longer be welcome here. Do I make myself clear?"

"Oui, mon amour," she replied (with a sadly demure nod).

At that same moment, Charlotte Bentley and her boyfriend, Zane Zaminsky, had just arrived at the Halfway Inn. A local motel named for supposedly being built on an old stagecoach stop that had been equidistant between Fresno and Modesto.

"Are we there, yet?" he sarcastically muttered through half-closed eyes.

"That's not funny, Zane!"

"Does it look like I'm laughing?" he countered: "Tell me, Char. How did you get invited to this shindig, again?"

She sighed as she repeated (for what felt like the millionth time) how her great-grandfather had been one of Sarah Bentley-Hamilton's many half-brothers. Prompting Zane to squint as he did the math.

"That makes you the old boy's...grandniece, once removed?"

"Something like that."

"Well, whatever the case," Zane replied: "...I just want to thank you for making me your 'plus one.' People don't celebrate their one hundredth birthday, every day. And, I have a feeling this one will be a real blast!"

**tbc**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7.**

**SAM BECKETT'S P.O.V.**

I drove along U.S. 50 to Placerville, California, before heading southwards to the Stockton Metropolitan Area via State Routes 49. 4, and 99. Along the way, I asked Al if Ziggy had any more information about the events leading up to the "Hamilton Massacre," as the tabloids had seemed to dub it. And, he nodded.

"Tomorrow morning, it's discovered that the aviary housing Chief Redtail (the falconry-trained mascot for the Hamilton High School Hawks football team) will have been broken into. With the hawk missing; and with a green sword spray-painted on the floor outside it. Then, on Sept. 16, the gaz-guzzler used for Driver's Ed at Bentley High School will be found vandalized. Stolen tires; broken windshield; and a green sword spray-painted on the hood of the engine. Local police will consider both acts to be the work of the town's resident street gang. Namely, Kurt Stark and three other pieces of rich, white trash. They've got juvenile criminal records longer than my arm!"

"A reasonable deduction," I replied: "But, in light of what you've already told me, what if it's not teenage vandals? What if it's the Russian Mob trying to lure Brian Stark out of hiding by getting his son in trouble?"

Al shrugged: "It's possible. In any case, Ziggy came across something else in the local paper's computer files. Something related to your earlier request for info on weirdo teenage girls."

I gave him a reproving glare.

"We both know I never phrased it like that. But, go ahead."

"During a homecoming pep rally, for the Bentley High Packers, one of the varsity cheerleaders will pull a vanishing act, worthy of that Levi Tate character."

"What do you mean, _'vanishing act_?' "

"Just that! According to eyewitness accounts, she's about to make a speech to the crowd in the school gym, when all of a sudden. . .poof! She literally disappears. Leaving nothing behind but her uniform. . .and a wig!"

I paused a couple moments, to mull this over.

"Psionic teleportation, maybe?

Al shrugged: "Beats me. You can ask her parents if you want."

"You mean, you've got her name?"

"Yeah! It's Chris. Chris Caulder."

The Range Rover took S.R. 89 to U.S. 395, before veering westward via Yosemite National Park (and certain dirt roads in the Stanislaus National Forest) towards Dos Pueblos. At the same time, a midnight-black Cessna Skymaster landed at the Sierra Sky Park Airport in Fresno, California. This semi-private airport had the unique distinction of doubling as a residential neighborhood. With the local aviators having the privilege of being able to taxi their planes to and from their own driveways!

Levi Tate had a summer home, here. So, his arrival in Fresno was not deemed unusual by the control tower.

He personally unloaded the Skymaster's cargo compartment. Transferring, among other things, two Hindu baskets and a black-shrouded box into the open-air bed of a midnight-black Chevrolet K-10 pickup truck. A box that he was quite prepared to explain away as being for his version of "Sawing-a-Lady-in-Half." When the bed had been filled to capacity, he placed an attachable roof on top of it. Turning the pickup into an overgrown station wagon!

Following which, he headed north towards Dos Pueblos.

**SAM BECKETT'S P.O.V.**

All the way to Modesto, I was puzzled as to how I could broach the subject of Brian Stark to the Dos Pueblos Police Department without alerting his wife and in-laws. If they were as locally powerful as Al had described, they might have the DPPD on the proverbial short leash. Then, I had a "brainstorm" (as Al would put it).

Upon reaching the Modesto city limits, I used the amphicar to go cruising up the San Joaquin River! And, sure enough; a couple hours later, the DPPD River Patrol was putting me in handcuffs.

**tbc**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8.**

**POLICE HEADQUARTERS,**

**DOS PUEBLOS, CALIFORNIA**

**(SEPTEMBER 14, 1993) **

**SAM BECKETT'S P.O.V. **

I rubbed my wrists as the handcuffs were taken off of them. Chief Anthony Glatt smiled sympathetically, then gestured for me to take one of the two chairs facing his desk. I took the right-hand one. Whereupon, the police chief nodded to the guard, and the latter quietly closed the door on his way out of the office.

"Your credentials check out, Mr. D'Amour. Although, I must admit. This is the first time I've ever had to impound a vehicle whose owner required both a driver's license _and_ a boating license!"

I chuckled, diplomatically. "You know what they say, about there being a first time for everything."

He smiled and nodded: "True enough. That still doesn't explain why you violated the speed limit of our local marina so...flamboyantly."

Here was where I grew serious. "It was the only way I could think of to get your attention, without alerting your city manager's family."

"I don't follow," Chief Glatt confessed.

"I understand that Jake Hamilton's father is going to be celebrating his one hundredth birthday, this week," I continued: "So, there are bound to be a lot relatives in attendance. Relatives who haven't seen each other in a long time. Like, for instance, Hamilton's son-in-law and grandchildren."

That was when the proverbial light bulb went on in the chief's mind's eye. "You're bounty hunting Brian Stark! Aren't you?"

I nodded (silently thanking Al for this additional information): "The trucking company that owns the armored car service Greensword victimized has offered a substantial reward for any info leading to his capture. So, it stands to reason that they might pay double for the capture, itself! And, if you could tip me off about the presence of any strangers in Dos Pueblos, answering his description? Well, let's just say I'd be willing to donate half of my reward to the local PBA."

Chief Glatt shot me a look of daggers: "Get out of here."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Get out of my office, and get out of my town. Now!"

"Then, I take it you're declining my offer."

The chief's glare doubled in intensity. "I don't like bounty hunters, Mr. D'Amour. To me, they're nothing but an unnatural hybrid. Half-vigilante; half-mercenary. So, pay your fines, collect your car-boat, and get lost. Do I make myself clear?"

I nodded, and left the police station. Ten minutes later, I was exiting the impound yard. With Al once again occupying the "shotgun seat" in holographic form.

"I take it the bounty hunter ploy didn't work?" he semi-rhetorically asked.

I shook my head: "He demonstrated classic Brooklyn Syndrome. Loyalty to one's fellow native inhabitants above all else."

"So, what now?"

"Now, I get a room for the night. So, I can stake out the aviary at Hamilton High."

**MEANWHILE, AT THE HALF-WAY INN...**

The desk clerk gave a keychain to the middle-aged woman who had just signed in. It was a sky-blue keychain with the room number (303) painted in white, within a black circle.

"Will your husband be joining you later, this evening?" he asked.

Jessica Harris shook her head: "No, I'm afraid not. Come along, Xander. Our room is this way!"

**tbc **


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9.**

**DOS PUEBLOS, CALIFORNIA**

**(SEPTEMBER 14, 1993)**

As the day wore on, more people began checking into the Half-way Inn in anticipation of the centennial celebration planned for Matthew Hamilton. Among those not related to him were Merrick Jamison-Smythe and Michelle Webster.

"Any sign of him on your side?" asked the Englishman.

Michelle shook her head, adding it would be very difficult to miss a robin's egg-blue convertible that could turn into an inboard motorboat.

"Well, then, perhaps our overland route did allow us to get ahead of him, as we'd hoped," he replied: "I'll go check us in."

Five minutes later, Michelle was helping him to unpack in Room 403. She, herself, was in Room 404. But, as she was technically a run-away in this time period, she naturally had no luggage of her own.

"I take it the desk clerk bought the story about being your tomboy-niece?"

Merrick nodded: "I just hope that Jacob Hamilton is just as willing to believe that I'm a writer for the Luna Foundation's newsletter!"

Michelle smiled: "Relax! Like I told you on the way, here. He's a big contributor to their San Francisco branch. So, it shouldn't arouse any suspicion that they'd send someone to cover his father's birthday bash in gratitude."

At that exact same moment, a midnight-black pickup truck was pulling into the increasingly crowded parking lot behind the inn. Levi Tate turned off the ignition. Before exiting the driver's seat, however, he made a call on his cordless telephone.

"Mr. Hamilton?"

"No, this is his daughter, Emma."

"How do you do? It's Levi Tate, the magician he hired to keep your grandfather's pre-adolescent descendants entertained."

"Oh, yes! Did you just get into town?"

"Yes. And, as soon as I've settled in, I'll be right over to discuss at what point during the festivities you want me to begin my act."

"That would be delightful."

Whereupon, Emma Stark gave him directions to the family's mansion. Listening to this, while sipping some orange juice, her daughter Marie turned to her friend (and fellow cheerleader), Chris Caulder.

"If I'm lucky, maybe this magician can make my ex-boyfriend disappear!"

"Is Jon still trying to make up with you, just so he can make out with you?" asked the long-haired blonde.

Marie nodded: "And, you know something? I sometimes wish that I could make him-or any other sexist, hypocritical horn dog of a boy, for that matter-feel just as small as they make their girlfriends feel, when they try to pressure you into losing your virginity."

The goosebumps that went up and down Chris' back as she said this made the disguised young man think of that morbid old expression about walking on one's own grave.

**SAM BECKETT'S P.O.V.**

As I pulled into the parking lot of the Half-way Inn, I noticed a familiar-looking fedora, almost immediately. And, so did Al.

"It's Merrick! How did he beat us here?"

"Well, I was detained at the police station for quite a while," I reminded him.

"Whatever! You know he's going to be plenty mad at you, for ditching him in Tahoe."

"I've already got that covered," I replied: "I'll tell him that I got a solid lead on that psychic girl he's looking for, and I just couldn't wait to follow it up. I'll claim that I think it's Matthew Hamilton's great-granddaughter! What's her name, again?"

"Marie. Marie Stark."

"Right. And, as she's one of the casualties listed in that news article Ziggy found, that gives the excuse even more legitimacy! Because, I can also claim to have had a premonition of danger, concerning her. And, no one who works for a psychic research group can denounce such claims out of hand. They have to scientifically debunk them, first!"

Five minutes later, "Harry D'Amour" checked into Room 503.

**tbc **


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10.**

**THE HALF-WAY INN (ROOM 503)**

**SAM BECKETT'S P.O.V.**

Among the things I unpacked, from Harry's luggage, was a stainless-steel Colt Lawman revolver in .357 magnum. I had found it while packing up last night, in Nevada, and I had carefully disassembled it. That way, in the unlikely event I was pulled over by the California Highway Patrol (and searched), for any reason, they would not think I was a hit man. Or, anything else even remotely similar.

I now reassembled it, just as carefully, because I had a feeling I might be needing it at tonight's stake-out. Al, who had temporarily left the Imaging Chamber to find out more about the break-in at Hamilton High, finally returned.

"According to the DPPD database, the break-in is estimated to have occurred around two in the morning. The padlock on the aviary was broken using bolt-cutters. But, they never found the latter. Or, any fingerprints, either. They did find evidence of cigarette ash, however. Which led the detectives to hypothesize the use of cigarette smoke as a pacifier prior to the actual abduction."

"That's pretty organized for a gang of rich white trash. More like professional-level criminality, wouldn't you say?"

I was alluding to Al's earlier evaluation of Kurt Stark and his friends. And, he nodded (somewhat reluctantly).

"Yeah! Especially, when you consider that the hawk was never recovered, in the original timeline. Ziggy's estimated a 99.876% chance that Chief Redtail was abducted by someone well-experienced in wild animal handling. And, that would include eco-terrorists like Greensword."

Suddenly, there was knock at the door. I looked at Al, and he nodded. With our present surroundings being nothing more than a hologram to him, he had no trouble walking through the door to see who it might be. He came back a second later, with a veritable leer on his face.

"You can open up, Sam. They're perfectly harmless."

"They" turned out to be the magician's assistants from Tahoe!

"We were thinking," said Emma Stark: "...that you might lead off the festivities. Climaxing your performance with making Grandpa Matthew's cake seeming to appear out of thin air!"

"An appropriately dramatic touch," replied Levi Tate, with a deceptively straight face: "And, where do you want the cake to appear? I mean; from which direction do you want it brought?"

His employer's daughter pointed toward the French doors that led to the swimming pool.

"The bakers have been instructed to hide it in the dressing cabana until it's time to actually sing 'Happy Birthday.' Then, you could materialize it the same way you did that elephant in the middle of Yankee Stadium!"

"Ah, yes! One of my more impressive illusions, if I do say so myself."

Kurt Stark, shaking his head in boredom, went upstairs to his bedroom. There, he hopped on to the bed, flat on his back, and picked up a nearby back-issue of PLAYBOY magazine. And, he became so engrossed, in leering at the centerfold, that he was not aware anyone else was present until he virtually jumped in that same horizontal position!

"See anything interesting?"

"Ahhhhhhhh! Thames, you son of a...!"

The African-American male standing at the foot of the bed grinned, shamelessly.

"Sorry, Zoey; couldn't resist."

"What are you doing here? It's not time for my progress report, yet."

"Urgent message from Lothos. The probability for the bird's abduction has just decreased by three percent."

"What?" exclaimed the time traveler, sitting bolt upright in her current host body.

Thames nodded: "Lothos thinks it might be due to the presence of that goody two-shoes, Beckett. Have any strangers arrived in town for the party?"

"Just that magician, and the reporters personally invited by Stark's grandfather."

Thames paused to consider this.

"Keep a close eye on them all. Beckett could be occupying anyone of them. And, Lothos ordered me to remind you that everything _must_ proceed as it did in the original timeline!"

Zoey/Kurt now smiled...like a Cheshire cat with rabies.

"That is one order I will follow _most_ willingly."

**tbc **


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11.**

**SAM BECKETT'S P.O.V.**

"Hola, Senor," said the one to my left: "Yo soy Jacinta. And, this is my sister, Juliana. But, you may call us 'Jackie and Jill.' "

"Mucho gusto," I replied: "Mi llamo Harry. How might I help you ladies?"

As I waited for her answer, I noticed why Al had pronounced them "harmless." The bikinis they wore provided no place imaginable for a concealed weapon! More importantly, however, I noticed that Jill's black hair was long and straight. As opposed to Jackie's being shoulder-length and wavy. So, they weren't _totally_ identical.

"We are next door, in Room Cinco-Zero-Cuatro, and we have just finished unpacking. Unfortunately, that is how we discover that, while we have plenty sunblock, we have forgotten tanning lotion. Do you have any we may borrow for when we finish swimming in pool?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't."

"Oh!" Jackie replied with a pout: "Well, mil gracias, anyway."

"De nada."

As the two young ladies walked towards the motel's elevator, I could feel Al glaring at me.

"Sam! Have you gone maricon, or something? Those two hotties weren't here for sun tan lotion, and you know it!"

"I also know I'm not here for what you perversely consider 'fun and games.' It's been a long day for me. And, I probably have an even longer night ahead of me. So, whether you like it or not, I'm going to catch up on my sleep, right now."

Levi Tate was driving home from the Hamilton/Stark residence, when he was forced to pull over by a sudden stabbing pain in his head. A stabbing pain indicative of one of his assistants trying to get through to him with an urgent telepathic message!

"Yes?" was his monosyllabic thought.

"Master," replied Jackie: "We have made contact with the one called Harry. Unfortunately, he would not invite us inside. What is more? He has un espectro guardiano...named Al!"

"We'll worry about him, later," declared the Tremere: "Right now, we have to get ready for Phase 1."

Meanwhile, in Room 404, Michelle Webster was applying a whetstone to a machete when she heard a knocke at her door. Upon ascertaining it was Merrick, she let him in, then resumed her machete sharpening.

"Where on Earth did you get that?" he demanded, after an awkward pause.

"Don't ask. What is it you really wanted to know when you came in?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes! Now, that we're settled in, I was wondering if you could tell me more about this Potential I've been looking for. You said she'd be at the party?"

"Yes and no," replied Michelle: "In addition to the party guest I'm to save (a radio astronomer named Zane Zaminsky), there's a twelve year-old boy who will be there. And, whether he lives or dies could be instrumental to the future life-or-death of your newest Slayer. His name, in case you're interested, is Xander Harris."

**HAMILTON HIGH SCHOOL,**

**DOS PUEBLOS, CAL.**

**SEPT. 15, 1993 (1:55 A.M.)**

**Sam Beckett's p.o.v.**

I had set the alarm clock radio, in my hotel room, for half past twelve in the morning. And, it went off on schedule. I awoke to the dulcet tones of a vintage country-western band called "Texas Pete and The Kit-shickers!"

I didn't bother taking a shower. All I did was splash my face with some cold water, and put on a white T-shirt; the left under-arm rig for the Colt Lawman; and a zip-up black hoodie with matching sweat pants and white sneakers. I then put the hood up, and sneaked out of the room. I didn't even use the elevator! I went down the staircase to the swimming pool area, and jogged to Hamilton High from there.

I walked when I could, not wanting to attract undue attention from any insomniac apartment-dwellers. And, I hid whenever Al (who popped up, at certain intervals) warned me of approaching police cars. As a result it took me me an hour and a quarter to get to this school on foot. Inconvenient? Yes. But, considering the bad impression I had made with Chief Glatt, I felt that extreme stealth was necessary.

The aviary turned out to be located behind the school gymnasium. It was chicken-wire enclosure, with its door still securely padlocked. Furthermore, to the right of that door was a small plaque. A black one, with white magnetized letters that read:

"Chief Redtail

(B. jamaicensis)"

The hawk, from what I could see in the dim lighting, was sound asleep on his wooden perch. So, I went to a nearby vantage point that gave me a clear view of the entire aviary without the reverse holding equally true. I then looked at my (or, rather, Harry's) glow-in-the-dark diver's watch. In a couple minutes, it would be five-of-two. And, I would soon see whether or not Chief Redtail's abductors included Brian Stark of Greensword. If so, I'd tackle him and place him under citizen's arrest. Thereby, altering the sequence of events leading up to the "Hamilton Massacre." Perhaps, even just enough to prevent its occurrence, altogether!

I should have known, from previous experience, that even thinking like that would have the opposite effect.

**tbc **


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12.**

**HALF-WAY INN,**

**DOS PUEBLOS, CALIFORNIA**

**(SEPT. 14, 1993)**

"Xander?" echoed Merrick.

"As in, Alexander Lavelle Harris," explained Michelle: "He was named for his maternal great-uncle. A heroic French Resistance leader, during World War II. Unfortunately, M'sieur Lavelle didn't do so well, afterwards. While working for Le Deauxieme Bureau, in Saigon, during the French Indochina War, he got blown up by a Vietminh time bomb! As a result, his widow took their daughter, Jessica, and moved to Quebec, shortly after the funeral."

Michelle added how, fifteen years later, Jessica Lavelle chanced to meet a young American named Tony Harris. The latter was an anti-Vietnam War draft dodger, whose political idealism made the young French girl fall head-over-heels in love with him. And, when her mother objected to their continuing to see each other, following this disclosure, the two eloped back to his hometown of Sunnydale, California.

"The rest is dysfunctional family history," she concluded.

**HAMILTON HIGH SCHOOL,**

**DOS PUEBLOS, CALIFORNIA**

**(SEPT. 15, 1993/ 2:01 A.M.)**

**SAM BECKETT'S P.O.V.**

Just as I was about to breathe a sigh of relief (that maybe Ziggy had been wrong, for once), it happened.

Four youngsters in their late teens came jogging up to the Hawk's Aerie. All of them hunched over, with grease paint on their faces. And, with the grease paint only a shade lighter than the black clothing and ski caps they wore, like commandos in a World War II spy film!

"OK," said their apparent leader: "Who's got the lock pick?"

"Me," replied the second in line.

"And, who's got the burlap sack?"

"Right here, Kurt," answered the third teenager.

"And, the smokes?"

The fourth boy held a pack of cigarettes in his right hand, and a lighter in his left.

"Awesome!" exclaimed Kurt Stark. "Let's get this party started."

With that pronouncement, I slowly and quietly withdrew the Colt Lawman from its holster, as I prepared to leave my hiding place.

That was when the nightmare started.

It began with the howling of a dog, somewhere off in the distance. Then, another dog joined in...and another...and another. What's more; the howling seemed to be getting closer and closer to the high school!

Then, came the ringing in my ears. Followed by a slight case of vertigo.

"What on Earth is happening here?" I whispered harshly to myself.

The answer to that question arrived a moment later. When something flew down out of the night sky...and snatched the teenager with the cigarettes into the air!

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

"Lenny!" yelled Kurt.

Two seconds later, it returned. Or, maybe something just like it. Whatever "_it_" was!

"KUUUUUUUUURT...!"

"Benny!"

Now, Chief Redtail was awake, and screaming in avian anger as a result. Which naturally only served to increase the confusion! Even so, Kurt and the remaining teenager at least had the presence of mind to stand back-to-back, when "_it_" came round for a third pass.

"No! Ahhh! Let go!"

"Mack!" shouted Kurt, spinning about and grabbing his friend around the waist, in a desperate attempt to drag him back down to the ground. Because, Mack was now three feet up in the air! With what looked like a huge pair of taloned feet grasping him by the shoulders!

I couldn't watch this any further. Reholstering the Colt Lawman, I charged towards the two remaining boys, intending to save them by tackling both of them to the ground. Unfortunately, for me, I had only covered half the intervening distance when I was intercepted by the strangest figure I had ever seen.

A tall, humanoid figure with gray fur...and bat-like wings and ears.

tbc


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13.**

**SAM BECKETT'S P.O.V.**

I couldn't believe it. All through my time in Nigel Covington's body, I had repeatedly reminded Al that there was no such things as vampires. Yet, here, standing before me, big as life...was a creature that might have been the basis for those legends.

A bipedal, anthropomorphic bat!

Now, it all made sense. The howling dogs; the ear-ringing; my vertigo. This thing had evidently been using its biological sonar to locate potential prey! And, it (or, perhaps, "_they_") had settled on Kurt Stark and his three stooges. Something I couldn't allow; no matter how malicious the mischief they might have been plotting.

So, I drew the Colt Lawman, once more, and fired a couple rounds over its head. And, sure enough, the bat-creature immediately covered its hyper-sensitive ears! But, if I had thought the only thing it might do was fly off without retaliating, I was soon proven sadly mistaken.

"!"

That ultra-sonic outcry proved more than I could bear, at such close range. As a result, I dropped the gun and fell to my knees. Covering my own ears, in a futile attempt to block out the sound, in the process. I also closed my eyes, in sheer reflex. When I finally opened them again, I was all alone.

Kurt Stark; his friends; the bat-creature(s). They were all gone. As was Chief Redtail.

Re-holstering the Colt Lawman for the second time, that night, I examined the door to the aerie. And, I thought to myself:

"No wonder they were never able to find a bolt cutter. This padlock was ripped off by hand!"

Needless to say, I retreated back to the Halfway Inn as quickly-but-quietly as I could. Because, sure enough; those two gunshots I had fired into the air had been reported to the local police. And, when I stealthily re-entered Room 503, I found Al already waiting for me.

"What happened?" he asked, without preamble.

So, I told him; leaving nothing out. And, as anticipated, he immediately started gloating.

"Ah-ha! I told you. All through the Covington case, I told you! I'll bet you'll think twice before calling me silly and superstitious, the next time around."

"On the contrary, Al. What I encountered tonight was one or more crypto-zoological lifeforms no more supernatural than Bigfoot. Lifeforms that probably inspired most-if not all-of the myths about vampires! And, possibly, all those gargoyle sculptures on cathedral rooftops, as well."

"Assuming you're right, Sam: how are you going to find Kurt's two missing friends? You certainly can't ask for Chief Glatt's help! Not after he basically ordered you to leave town."

"True. But, there's another person, here, who might have a more unconventional means of locating them."

Both of Al's eyebrows arched upward.

"You don't mean...?"

I nodded: "The very girl Merrick was most likely meant to find. Kurt Stark's sister, Marie."

**tbc**


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14.**

**THE HALFWAY INN,**

**DOS PUEBLOS, CAL.**

**SEPT. 15, 1993 (8:52 A.M.)**

**SAM BECKETT'S P.O.V.**

It was the hotel room's clock radio that woke me up later that morning.

". . .sometime around two o'clock, late last night. There was no sign of the redtail hawk. And, on the ground, just inside the door of the aviary? The green, spray-painted image of a broadsword!"

That last part woke me up faster than a dozen cups of coffee.

"A green broadsword?" I muttered to myself (_as I switched off the radio_): "Then, it couldn't have been a teen prank. Because, something made off with Stark and his three stooges before any of them could use their spray paint! So, it's either Greensword, for real, who's responsible; Or, it's an elaborate ruse by the Russian Mob."

"More like the Transylvanian Mob," replied Al (_rematerializing without advance notice, as usual_): "Based on what you told me, last night, anyway."

"Would you knock it off with all your talk about vampires! I told you. . ."

". . ._'There's no such thing'_ he said, in a mocking falsetto of my voice: "I know. I know."

"Well, then, would you kindly tell _me_ what I need to know about tomorrow night's caper? Like just what _kind_ of car gets stolen? And, I don't mean a gas-guzzler! I mean make and model."

"According to Ziggy? A 1970 Mercury Cougar. Brownish-gold."

"And, the green broadsword gets spray-painted on the hood you said?"

Al nodded.

"Well, then, I better get a little more shut-eye."

And, I promptly rolled over on to my stomach to do just that.

**WOLF LAKE, WASHINGTON**

**SEPT. 15, 1993 (2:00 P.M./PST)**

Brian Stark (_alias "Gregor Buza_") spit out some of the beer he had been sipping, as he read the news story on the back page of THE SEATTLE POST-INTELLIGENCER.

"Hey! Watch it!" exclaimed Maureen Osbourne: "That's a genuine Mongolian camel-hair rug. My sister will skin me alive if you stain it with that stuff."

"Yeah," agreed her husband, Ken: "And, we're on thin enough ice as it is!"

The three eco-activists had been hiding out in this small Pacific Northwestern town since they had first learned (_through an old SEAL buddy of Brian's, now working for the Naval Investigative Service_) about the true nature of the Alaskan fish cannery payroll they had recently incinerated. Naturally, Maureen's brother-in-law had been somewhat reluctant to harbor the fugitives. But, his wife Vivian ultimately talked him into reconsidering.

He did so on one condition, however. Namely, that they treat the furniture in their guest rooms like they were valuable museum-quality antiques. Which is precisely what they were!

"Make my apologies to her and Willard," Brian now replied: "I've got to see my wife about our son."

Five minutes later, he and his Kawasaki Ninja motorcycle were roaring southward toward California.

**MEANWHILE, BACK IN DOS PUEBLOS...**

Zoey (_currently known as "Kurt Stark_") finally woke up. She felt "her" forehead, as she initially thought she had a fever. Then, as she stood back up, she nearly lost her balance and fell back down. Making her think that, perhaps, she had indulged in too much beer drinking with Kurt's friends the night before.

Then, it came back to her.

She had talked the other three malcontents into postponing the beer bash until _after_ they had abducted that red-tail hawk. That way, they would have twice as much to celebrate and could celebrate twice as much. The real reason, of course, was to prevent any premature drunkenness that might ruin the successful re-enactment of the timeline.

"So, how on Earth...?" she began muttering to herself.

"Kurt?" inquired the voice of Lenny in a half-moan/half-whisper: "You okay, man?"

"Yeah," she replied: "But, I didn't get the license plate of the truck that hit us."

"That was no truck, I'm afraid!"

The thundering voice that uttered that pronouncement made the two of them cover their ears and wince. It was followed by a rustling of some kind of fabric and, then, a blinding flash of light. And, when their eyes had adjusted to the latter, they looked upward.

What they saw made them gasp in shock and disbelief.

Looking down at them, through what seemed to be the bars of a giant birdcage, were the billboard-sized faces of Levi Tate and his two lovely assistants!

_tbc_


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15.**

"What in blazes...?" Zoey/Kurt began to exclaim.

"Fear not, little friends," replied Levi Tate: "You are neither dead nor hallucinating. You've merely been reduced to a more manageable size by an elixir distilled from the neuro-toxin of a unique sea beast. Plesiobatis lilliputensis; the Lilliputian stingray! Sometimes, also known as the Indo-Pacific _'shrink ray_'! Rest assured, however, that this condition is not permanent. It will end when we have forced young Mr. Stark's father out of hiding."

The next thing she knew, Zoey was enveloped in the tell-tale white aura of another leap. And, when it cleared away, she found herself standing before the cube-shaped computer known as "_Lothos_."

"Well done!" proclaimed the latter (_projecting a hologram of the Toreador antitribu it had been named for_): "My sensors picked up a change, in certain news databases, regarding the Dos Pueblos Massacre. Namely; that Brian and Kurt Stark were identified among the victims at the party! This means he is now en route to Dos Pueblos, in a misguided attempt to clear his son's name."

Zoey got down on one knee: "Thank you, Milord. Does this also mean we no longer have to worry about the intervention of Sam Beckett?"

The hologram shook "_his_" head: "Unfortunately, no. There is still a 25.71% probability that he might succeed in altering history. So, you are to proceed with Phase 2, immediately."

Zoey regained her feet, but bowed in humble acknowledgement.

"As you command, Milord."

Two seconds later, Zoey found herself mentally occupying a new host.

**HALFWAY INN, ROOM 503**

**(**_**SAM BECKETT'S P.O.V.)**_

When I re-awoke, it was three o'clock in the afternoon. And, of the two faces I saw, the one on the clock radio was a lot happier than Al's.

"Bad news?" I guessed.

Al nodded: "Ziggy gave me an update, about an hour ago. There's been a significant change to the DOS PUEBLOS HERALD-GAZETTE database."

"What kind of change?"

"To stories about the massacre. One account explicitly mentions Kurt and Brian Stark being found among the dead!"

That last part completely swept all the remaining cobwebs of fatigue from my brain.

"How? I mean, was Kurt arrested in the act of stealing that car?"

Al shook his head: "That news story is still the same. The same goes for the one about that soon-to-be-missing girl."

"Chris Caulder?"

Al nodded. So, I told him that, after I had showered and dressed, I was going to look up her family's address and have a talk with her.

"What for?" asked Al.

"It could be that, in the original time-line, she was abducted by someone working for the Russian Mob. Someone who mistook her for Brian Stark's daughter! If so, it might upset the probability of recurrence if I can keep her from attending that pep rally, tomorrow."

"What about the Driver's Ed car that gets stolen, tonight?"

"Don't worry! I plan to be back in plenty of time for that."

"Unless you get spotted by one of the local cops, that is," countered Al: "Chief Glatt ordered you to leave town. Remember? And, D'Amour's amphicar doesn't exactly blend in."

"I know. That's why I'm calling a cab."

"So, who am I, this time?" asked Zoey, as "_she_" drove along.

"According to computer records at the regional DMV?" replied Thames: "You're Michael Zingarelli. A new driver for Dos Pueblos City Cabs. But, according to Langley, Virginia? You're ' _Shotgun Mike_' Raffone; an ex-CIA hit man now working for the Order of Teraka!"

Zoey's observer was on the verge of adding something else, when the radio to the right of the steering wheel interrupted him.

"Hey, Raffone! You anyway near the Halfway Inn? We just got a call from a potential fare in Room 503."

_tbc_


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16.**

Thames automatically scanned for an old geopolitical map of Dos Pueblos.

"Lothos says it's two blocks down, take a left, and three blocks over."

So, Zoey picked up the microphone and replied that "_he_" would pick up the fare. Adding an inquiry as to whether or not she had to ask for a specific name.

"Yeah," said the dispatcher: "His name's D'Amour!"

Thames did some further checking.

"Jackpot!" he exclaimed: "Harry D'Amour. According to Lothos, that's the name of the private detective who tried to warn the local cops in the first time-line. We kill him and we eliminate another obstacle that might otherwise prevent a massacre."

"How am I supposed to do that?" retorted Zoey: "Run him over in his hotel room with this cab?"

"Not exactly," grinned her observer: "Raffone got his nickname from his weapon of choice. An over/under Savage Arms 242 in .410 bore, with a sawn-off barrel and buttstock. Holstered beneath the left side of his windbreaker!"

_**SAM BECKETT'S P.O.V.**_

It was about quarter-of-four in the afternoon when the knock finally came.

"Mr. D'Amour? Your cab is here."

"Coming!" I called back.

The first thing I saw, when I opened the hotel room door, was a man about my own age (_with dark hair and a swarthy complexion_) wearing a gray windbreaker and a matching Gatsby cap. The next thing I saw was the look of recognition on his face while he was in the process of drawing a sawed-off shotgun from a custom-made holster!

"Beckett?"

It was only that micro-second of startled delay that saved my life. Because, it allowed me to swing my right arm forward and knock his right arm upward. While simultaneously moving my left hand to his right elbow in an attempt to wrestle the gun away from him!

Unfortunately, that was when he overcame his initial astonishment, and raised his own left hand to try and grab it back. As a result, we struggled back and forth for a good minute or two. Long enough for one of us to involuntarily pull one of the shotgun's triggers and fire a round into the air!

Naturally, the sound of the gunshot did not go unnoticed. Someone screamed from the direction of the parking lot, as the direction of the shotgun's aim changed once again. And, once again, one of us involuntarily fired it. The remaining shell going straight through Al and into the carpet!

"Hey, watch it!" he screamed.

My assailant, of course, didn't hear him. And, I was forced to ignore him, as I dragged my assailant over to the balcony railing and banged the sawed-off shotgun on its wrought-iron surface. Once; twice; thrice!

As anticipated, the ensuing vibrations partially numbed my assailant's grip. Allowing me to give him two swift kicks in the groin with my right knee. And, when he doubled over? I used the sawed-off shotgun as a lever. Lifting him back up, and then judo-tossing up and over my head. . .to land flat on his back.

I then threw the sawed-off shotgun to the ground behind me, so I could use both hands to lift my assailant off the ground and ask him a few questions. But, if I had been counting on my judo body-slam to have knocked the wind out of him, I was to be vastly disappointed.

Because, the moment I spun him around, to look him straight in the eye, he head-butted me!

He then gave me a two-handed push backward, so that I tripped over that shotgun and fell flat on my back. This gave him the perfect opportunity to jump on to my chest and begin strangling me with his bare hands.

"I've. . .been waiting. . .for this. . .for a long. . .time. . .Beckett! I owe you. . .for stealing. . .Alia. . .away from. . .me!"

Unable to break this guy's grip from the outside, I brought my hands together, behind his wrists, and inserted them in-between. This allowed me to break his grip from the inside out. I then sat up just far enough to grab the lapels of his windbreaker. Just so I could lie back down while simultaneously raising my legs and turning them into a battering ram. Catapulting him off my chest in a reversal of my earlier body-slam.

Wouldn't you know it? This guy still was still conscious enough to regain his feet!

"Well, well, well!" he exclaimed: "Look what I just found."

He withdrew a switchblade from his right coat pocket and clicked it open.

"Killing me won't bring her back to you. . .Zoey!"

That brief mention of "_Alia_" had inspired to me make a wild guess. But, the return of momentary astonishment, to "_her_" face, showed me I had guessed correctly. It also allowed me to perform a couple of spinning tang soo do back-kicks! One to her right hand. . .and the other to her head.

The first disarmed her of the switchblade, as I'd intended. Unfortunately, I must have put too much power in the second. Because, instead of falling to the floor of the balcony, against the railing. . .Zoey went over it!

"NooooOOOOOoooo!"

The ensuing "thud" was followed by a veritable chorus of screams. And, as I looked at the body of the man Zoey had been occupying (_while everyone on the third and fourth floor balconies looked up at me_), I heard the sound of police car sirens growing ever louder.

"Oh, boy!" I muttered.

_tbc _


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17.**

**THE HALFWAY INN,**

**DOS PUEBLOS, CAL.**

**(SEPT. 15, 1993)**

Michelle Webster had been performing a typical Slayer kata, with the machete, when she heard the screams. Rushing out of Room 404, she ran to the railing of the balcony, arriving just a fraction of a second behind Merrick.

"What is it? What's going on?'

"Someone apparently just fell to their death. Look!"

He pointed downward at a male body wearing a gray windbreaker and matching Gatsby cap. Whereupon, both he and Michelle gazed upward. Causing the former to gasp.

"D'Amour!"

The blond-aired occult detective looked down at them. But, he did not seem to recognize them. Perhaps, because he was distracted by the approaching police sirens.

**SAM BECKETT'S P.O.V.**

I hadn't expected my reunion with Chief Glatt to be a pleasant one. And, I was not disappointed. For one thing? He personally came to the scene of the crime, and handcuffed me. Then, he personally escorted me down to his police car, and '_accidentally_' banged my forehead against the roof of the left rear door. Without apologizing!

**DOS PUEBLOS POLICE DEPARTMENT,**

**CITY JAIL, INTERROGATION ROOM 1 (5:30 P.M.)**

"Okay!" demanded Chief Glatt: "Let's hear it, again, from the top."

I sighed: "How many times do you want me to tell the same story?"

"Until I hear something that makes sense!" he barked: "Why would a cab driver be carrying a sawed-off shotgun? And, why would he try to kill you with it? It certainly wasn't to get revenge for being stiffed on a tip. He'd only just arrived to pick you up!"

"I don't know!" I yelled back at him (_unable to help myself_): "Maybe he was a rival bounty hunter working undercover. Or, maybe he was a hit man working for the Russian Mob! Either way, he clearly saw me as a threat, and tried to kill me before I could claim the reward on Brian Stark."

"Is that why you stuck around town, after I clearly told you to leave?"

"I didn't regard compliance with that order as being mandatory. Under the Supreme Court's decision, in _'Taylor v. Taintor_,' bounty hunters basically have the fugitive-pursuit powers of Federal marshals!"

"Only in regards to entering known properties and residences of the bail-jumping fugitive, in question, without a warrant."

"And, you seriously think Stark has the will power to stay away from his family during the Big Birthday Bash, on the 20th?" I countered (_unable to resist the temptation to talk a little bit like the on-looking Al_).

"Well, I know one thing, for certain," he replied: "Without a bail bondsman of your own, I have legitimate grounds to hold _you_ until well _after_ that birthday party is over!"

I half-smirked.

"At which time, I will promptly notify the FBI field office, in Sacramento, that you knowingly aided and abetted a Federal fugitive, instead of arresting him."

Chief Glatt threw me a proverbial look-of-daggers.

"You're bluffing."

"Bluffing's for poker players, Chief. And, I don't play poker!"

"Whoa!" exclaimed Al. "Good one, Sam!"

"My original offer still holds," I added: "Help me bring in Stark, and I'll donate half my reward to the Police Benevolent Association. Moreover, I'll let you and your department grab the lion's share of the glory!"

"How can you be so sure that Stark is even in town?"

"I have a tip from. . .certain sources. . . that someone will steal a Mercury Cougar, from the driver's ed garage at Bentley High, later tonight. And, then, badly damage it! Topping it all off with the spray-painted likeness of a green broadsword on the hood of the engine."

He massaged his chin, with his right hand, for a few moments.

"How reliable are these sources?" he finally asked.

"They've never let me down, yet!"

It was hard to tell, trying to look at him surreptitiously, out of the corner of my eye. But, I could swear Al blushed!

Chief Glatt told me he'd think about it. So, I was taken back to my cell. I had barely been in there ten minutes, however, when the jailer returned.

"You got a visitor, D'Amour. Says he's the lawyer for the Drake Renfield Interstate Trucking Company. Or, D.R.I., for short."

I was momentarily stunned at hearing those initials, again. And, I was even more stunned when I saw who was claiming to be a lawyer!

"Well, well, well," chanted Merrick Jamison-Smythe: "We meet again, Mr. D'Amour! And, under most unusual circumstances, too. Wouldn't you agree?"

**tbc**


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18.**

**VISITING ROOM,**

**DPPD HEADQUARTERS,**

**(SAM BECKETT'S P.O.V.)**

I tried to look as noncommittal as possible, as I sat down across from Merrick at the glass-divided table. With the glass partition having a moderately small hole in the center of it, containing many smaller holes (_similar to the receiver of a rotary-dial telephone_).

"My compliments on your fast-thinking," I said to him: "But, you'd better hope Chief Glatt doesn't double-check your story. Because, while I have no idea who Drake Renfield is, I do know that the name of the trucking company, that owns that Alaskan armored car service, is called McKay and Witwicky!"

"By the time that happens," he replied: "...assuming it happens, I intend to have heard your full explanation for why you deserted me back in Lake Tahoe."

"Only if you first explain to me what D.R.I. really stands for. And, why it has a Z-plus security clearance!"

It's not often that I've gotten to see someone act more surprised than myself during my leaps. Yet the momentary look of shock that appeared on Merrick's face topped all those other times, put together! And, I have to confess...I enjoyed it.

Immensely and shamelessly.

"How on Earth...?"

I waved his question aside.

"Answer my question, or I walk out of here and tell the guard you're an impostor! These terms are, of course, non-negotiable and time-sensitive."

It felt like an eternity before he answered. But, it was probably more like five or six seconds.

"Very well. Have you ever heard of...the Defense Research Institute?"

I shook my head.

"It was started in 1923, by top-secret order of U.S. Army Chief of Staff, General ' Black Jack ' Pershing, himself! You see, in February of that year, a certain Major Douglas MacArthur came home from his command in the Philippines to see his mother. Who had been diagnosed with a terminal heart ailment!"

"Naturally, he got a second opinion...and a third...and a fourth! But, none of them contradicted the first diagnosis. That was when his friend, and fellow West Point alumnus, George Patton introduced him to the clairvoyant nicknamed...the Sleeping Prophet."

"As in Edgar Cayce?" I exclaimed (_barely able to keep my voice down_).

Merrick nodded: "MacArthur was naturally skeptical, at first. But, he was soon convinced otherwise, after Cayce was put under hypnosis, and revealed certain things that were unknown to anyone else outside the immediate MacArthur family! With his bona fides thus established, Cayce then revealed a certain medical treatment that might possibly save the elder Mrs. MacArthur's life. The only problem being that this treatment was quite radical for its time."

"It ultimately proved successful, however. Following which, both MacArthur and Patton brought the whole episode to Pershing's attention. And, he acted on their recommendation that the War Department should investigate the military applications of such abilities."

"Wait a minute!" I replied, holding up my right hand: "Are you telling me that that's how Uncle Sam _really_ got into psychic research?"

Merrick nodded, again: "Initially with the help of certain faculty members from Stanford University. Yet their leaves of absence to the East Coast, inevitably became conspicuous. So, by the late 1930's, and with the help of Sir Roger Wyndham-Pryce, Duke University became the _new_ public face for this line of military research. After all; North Carolina _is_ much closer to Washington, DC, than California!"

He then added that it was my turn. Unfortunately, for him, just as I was about to dish out _my_ well-prepared story, the guard came back. Telling us our time was up.

So, I swiftly whispered: "Chris Caulder and Marie Stark!"

**THE HALFWAY INN,**

**DOS PUEBLOS, CAL.**

**SEPT. 15, 1993**

**(6:35 P.M./PST)**

"Defense Research Institute?" echoed Michelle.

She and Merrick had met in her room, Rm. 404, after his return from the police station. The Watcher had repeated his conversation with Harry D'Amour. And, when he had finished, she had to admit that he did have a talent for improvisational prevarication.

Merrick blushed: "One has to become quite expert at lying, when dealing with outsiders who either don't (_or mustn't_) know about the existence of the supernatural. And, even those who do have to be kept on a need-to-know basis, per order of the Watchers' Council! Hence, that elaborate cover story. Which, by the way, was partially devised by the Demon Research Initiative, itself, during the Great Depression."

"What about those names he gave you at the last second?"

"I looked them up in the local phone directory. The only listing for ' Stark ' was followed by the given name, ' Emma.' And, I already know she's Matthew Hamilton's granddaughter! So, presumably, Marie is her own daughter. As for Chris Caulder? She might be the daughter of a Mr. and Mrs. Louis Caulder."

"Do you also think she might be the Potential you're looking for?"

Merrick's eyes narrowed: "Perhaps, I should be asking _you_ that question. You are from the future, after all!"

Michelle shrugged: "There were no records of her name by 2024. Only that Xander Harris might somehow be instrumental in saving her life. Hence, my coming back to try and save his!"

Merrick accepted that answer without rebuttal. Although, he still felt she was lying to him by omission.

Meanwhile, one floor up, Jackie and Jill were having some fun feeding their latest "pets." Although, the latter were rapidly growing tired of fried banana chips and eyedroppers full of water, the metabolism of their shrunken bodies made them almost incessantly hungry!

"Come now, monitos!" pouted Jackie: "Uno mas! One last time, than we leave you alone...until the next feeding time."

"Si," giggled Jill: "I set egg timer for another half-hour."

"Okay, okay," muttered Kurt: "Por favor, mi reina. I want some more!"

Both vampiresses laughed at the shrill sound emitted by his shrunken vocal cords.

"Good monito!" exclaimed Jackie: "Mui bien!"

And, she kept her promise.

**tbc **

**Monito**_:_ from the Spanish, literally "_little monkey_."


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19.**

**SOMEWHERE IN WASHINGTON, D.C.**

**(SEPTEMBER 15, 1993)**

The two DRI Agents entered the Director's office. Their trademark sunglasses already restricted to the lapel pockets of their black blazers.

"You sent for us, sir?" asked Agent Doyle (the senior partner).

The Director did not even order them to sit down. He just threw a rolled-up newspaper in the direction of Doyle's face. The latter instinctively lashed out with his right hand, intercepting the hard-flung periodical before even getting so much as a paper cut!

"I just got that by special courier from our L.A. office."

The two field agents immediately saw that it was a small-town newspaper from California. And, that the front-page head line concerned the death of a taxi cab driver named...

"Oh, shit!" they chorused as one.

"What in Heaven's name was Raffone doing in Dos Pueblos?"

"My first guess, sir," replied the senior agent: "...would be maintaining his cover. After all; the Order of Teraka does expect all available members to try and fulfill each open contract."

Manetti nodded in agreement, adding: "The contract on Stark includes a bonus if his taxidermized head is brought right to the client's hands!"

"I am well aware of that!" snapped the Director: "But, Raffone was restricted to passive surveillance, only, unless the situation demanded otherwise. Like if a genuine Terakan mistook him for a competitor."

"That might've been precisely the case, sir," Agent Doyle replied (very delicately): "The Harry D'Amour mentioned in the article, with him, is well known to us. And, his day job of P.I. would make a great cover for tracking down contract targets."

"Then, that's precisely what you and Manetti are hereby ordered to determine, once you get out there to claim Raffone's body."

"Yes, sir!" they chorused, once more, before leaving the Director's office.

**RM. 404, THE HALF-WAY INN,**

**DOS PUEBLOS, CALIFORNIA**

**(7:30 P.M./PST) **

Michelle Webster answered the knock at her door. Opening it to see Merrick Jamison-Smythe standing there. What he started to say, however, was momentarily driven from his mind by the sight of what Michelle's right hand was unsuccessfully trying to hide behind her right leg.

"Is that the machete you were sharpening the other day? The one you refused to divulge the provenance of?"

"Two for two, Merrick," she replied with a sarcastic grin.

"And, just what are you planning to do with that?"

She shook her head: "My turn to ask questions. Why did you really knock?

"I was going to get a late supper, in the next-door diner, and I thought I might inquire if you wanted to join me? But, now that. . .?'

"Thanks, but no thanks," she brusquely interrupted: "I'm going out on patrol."

"Patrol?" he echoed: "You're not a Slayer of this time period! Besides which, this town. . ."

". . .has never had a vampire infestation before. I know. But, all that's about to change. Starting tonight! Now, if you'll excuse me?"

But, the tall, skinny Watcher was totally _unwilling_ to excuse her, just then. As the positioning of his arms, on both sides of the doorway (_like a poor man's Samson_), clearly indicated to her.

"What do you know about tonight that I don't?"

"I know you don't bleed to death from severed arms, tonight!" she replied (raising the machete a little higher): "But, if you don't get out of my way, that particular bit of history could change, dramatically."

The two stared at each other, straight in their unblinking eyes. A minute later, Merrick relented. But, he strongly reassured her that the conversation was far from over.

"We _will_ be resuming it, first thing, upon your return."

"Fair enough," she answered.

She then sheathed the machete, within the scabbard sewn into the back of her leather jacket, before trotting off into the night.

**BENTLEY HIGH SCHOOL,**

**(SAM BECKETT'S P.O.V.)**

It was just eight o'clock when Chief Glatt and his men had finally completed arranging the trap.

The 1970 Mercury Cougar, used by the school's driving instructor, was usually stored by him within the school's auto-shop garage. As this saved him the expense of renting private storage space. But, tonight, it had been secretly taken to the police impound yard, while another vehicle was put in its place.

A 1982 Ford Thunderbird (golden orange in color) that belonged to Chief Glatt, himself!

"I personally restored this car," he had told me: "So, I naturally have a strong investment in her, both financially and emotionally. If you catch my drift!"

I nodded, telling him not to worry. Although, I silently wished I could convince myself to do the same thing. Because, despite this alteration to the news stories, of the previous time-line, part of me still felt something unexpectedly bad was going to happen, tonight.

**tbc **


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

**BENTLEY HIGH SCHOOL,**

**DOS PUEBLOS, CALIFORNIA,**

**SEPT. 15, 1993 (8:15 P.M./PST)**

**SAM BECKETT'S P.O.V.**

On the excuse that I was checking my (that is, Harry D'Amour's) office answering machine, I whipped out my cell phone and pretended to hit speed-dial. Then, in order to talk to Al, I pretended I was listening to a long series of pre-recorded messages!

"Still no change to the news stories relating to the car theft tonight?" I whispered.

He shook his head: "Not yet, anyway."

"Then, do me a favor. Go outside, and keep an eye peeled for anyone suspicious headed this way."

"You got it, Sam."

And, with that, he walked through the same garage door that was flanked by two DPPD officers a piece. With another half-dozen in various places around the exterior of the garage. Fifteen minutes later, however, he came running back inside. With a very fearful look on his face!

"What's up? I whispered.

"We got company, Sam. And, they don't look friendly. In fact, they don't even look human! They look more like. . .buck-toothed Vulcans!"

Michelle Webster had just arrived on the high school grounds when she spotted them. And, the long-haired one in the lead looked just like the holographs she had seen of him, back home, in 2040.

"Amelin of the Gangrel Clan. Oh, am I going to enjoy this!"

The sect had originally been called "the Childer of Cacophony." That is; till the Final Death of their master (at the hands of the tenth-century Slayer) had fragmented their ranks. Leading to the expulsion of heir apparent Lothos the Toreador-and all the other male antitribu-by his Malkavian arch-rival, Lorelai.

Amelin had decided to stick with Lothos, and had served as the latter's bodyguard ever since. It had not been easy, though! Time and time, again, a new Slayer had arisen to harass them. Sometimes, they were victorious against her. Other times, they barely escaped with their un-lives.

Now, Lothos was in torpor. Regenerating from a fierce battle with the most recent of Slayers. Yet, a battle that had proven a Pyrrhic victory for the bitch!

Still, it took a lot of mortal money to set up a new headquarters where the regeneration could occur without disturbance. Hence, Amelin's becoming a sub-contractor for the Order of Teraka. And, the antitribu Gangrel accompanying had been a motorcycle gang, at the time of their mass Embrace, during the 1950's. Hence, he was the only one of them _not_ dressed up like Marlon Brando from "The Wild One!"

Suddenly, Amelin raised his right hand, in a signal for them to stop. He pointed his face upward, and sniffed the night air.

"I don't smell our contact. But, I do smell a whole lot of strangers. Spread out; find them; and drain them dry!"

**SAM BECKETT'S P.O.V.**

"Buck-toothed Vulcans?" I exclaimed (barely keeping my voice to a whisper).

Al nodded, frantically: "I tell you, Sam, they're vampires! Sure as I'm a neuro-hologram!"

I almost succumbed to the impulse of telling him, once again, there were _no such things_ as vampires. Yet, I managed to resist that temptation, completely unwilling to be sucked into the same old debate with him. So, I changed the subject by asking him, semi-rhetorically, why the accelerated time table.

"I thought the news stories found by Ziggy indicated an approximate time of midnight for the car theft."

"They did! Maybe the switch in cars resulted in a moved-up deadline."

"In which case," I replied (massaging my jaw in thought): "...an earlier arrest of Brian Stark might yet change the original time line even more favorably!"

That was when Chief Glatt noticed me.

"Who are you talking to?"

"Just thinking out loud, Chief."

"Well, knock it off! One of my men, outside, just radioed that he thinks somebody's coming."

This was confirmed a moment later. . .by a shrill scream of terror.

The Gangrels coordinated their attacks with eye-blurring speed and precision. As a result, some of the police officers were arguably lucky if they managed to get a look at their attackers and/or fire off a single shot! They certainly moved too fast for Michelle to do anything more than avenge one of the fallen cops.

"Hey, you!"

"Wha...?"

That was all the Gangrel in question had time for uttering. Prior to having a razor-edged machete go right through his neck, in one smooth, semi-circular arc! And, the temporally transposed Slayer just watched (in silent, shameless glee) as both its body and head crumbled into separate piles of dust.

"Now, for Amelin," she finally muttered.

Whereupon, she turned around, fully intending to sneak up on the Gangrel leader just as stealthily as she had on this one. But, she was suddenly reminded of the old Robert Burns phrase concerning one's "best laid plans" upon confronting her next target. . .face to face!

Still, she did not let this startling development discourage her.

"Do I know you?" Amelin asked (with ironically sincere curiosity).

Michelle grinned: "Let's just say, you'll soon wish you hadn't."

** tbc**

**Special note:** _in the canonical VTM handbooks, the above Kindred sect is officially known as "the Daughters of Cacophony."_


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21.**

"Do I know you?" asked Amelin.

And, Michelle grinned.

"Let's just say, you'll soon wish you hadn't."

Before the hirsute Gangrel could mutter a retort, he suddenly found himself dodging swipe after swipe from the young woman's machete!

"Yo, guys!" he called out, after jumping to the roof of the Driver's Ed garage: "A little help, here, please?"

He repeated this plea, even more insistently, after Michelle had used the lid of a garbage dumpster as a metallic trampoline in order to join him on the roof! Only, this time, it brought results.

"Kill her a lot," he ordered (_after there was a sufficient number of subordinates between the two of them_).

The lower-ranking Gangrels did as instructed, and started advancing on the time-traveling Slayer.

**SAM BECKETT'S P.O.V.**

When the screaming ceased, Chief Glatt immediately went to his walkie-talkie. Ordering the men he had posted outside to respond. When they failed to do so, he looked at me with a mixture of accusation and alarm.

"Let's go," he said (_as much to me as to his other men_), and drew his hand gun.

We charged outside, our weapons at the ready. The question was; ready for what?

As if in answer, we heard a shout from somewhere above us.

"Yo, guys! A little help, here?"

"That came from the roof!" exclaimed Chief Glatt: "Smitty! Jonesy! Get the step ladder from that janitor's closet, and bring it out here. The rest of you? Spread out, and find the others!"

That was how I wound up finding the first of the bloodless corpses.

"Oh, boy!"

The first two Gangrels went down rather easily. Disembowel and behead! Disembowel and behead! The other three, however, proved somewhat more difficult. Circling Michelle like sharks around a surfer. And, every time she tried to get at one of them, they jumped back. Mocking her and shouting: "Ha, Toro!"

Amelin just stood there, joyously watching the torment. Right up until he heard the clang of aluminum on stone.

"Freeze! Police! You're all under arrest."

Amelin turned about. More than willing to finish off this second wave of police the same way his hench-vamps had finished off the first. That is, until he suddenly clutched at his ears in excruciating pain!

**SAM BECKETT'S P.O.V.**

My revolver dropped to the ground as my hands instinctively went to cover my ears. And, I instantly knew what was causing their discomfort. The bat-creatures! They were out and about, again. Searching the area for human-sized food. . .

. . .and evidently finding it.

This could not be coincidence! These things must have been captured and trained, by the Soviet Union, just before the end of the Cold War. And, now, the Russian Mob was using them to go after anyone associated with Brian Stark. Otherwise, Ziggy's initial scan of the Dos Pueblos Historical Society's database would have picked up some mention of local folklore concerning these things. Similar to the Phantom Airship sightings in the Midwest circa 1898!

Somehow, in spite of the intense pain, I managed to open my eyes and look skyward. Sure enough; there they were. The two, grayish-colored, living gargoyles from the other night! Circling the high school roof top like two diurnal vultures waiting for something on the ground to completely die.

Amelin managed to open his eyes. And, he growled in his throat when he saw who was standing before him.

"You!"

"Long time/no see, Amelin," replied Levi Tate: "How's Lothos, these nights?"

"None of your business!"

"Ah! But, that's where you're wrong," declared the vampiric mage: "You see, I'm here on behalf of the Order of Teraka. And, if you are, too, then I'm afraid we are at (_you should pardon the expression_) cross-purposes."

"What the frig are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the immense trouble I've gone to, to lure Brian Stark back here. And, I'm not letting you upset those plans by draining these badge-toting kine!"

He pointed to Chief Glatt and the two subordinate policemen called Smitty and Jonesy (_who had already been rendered unconscious by Tate's magic_).

"I don't care about your melodramatic plans," Amelin snapped back: "Whatever they might be! All I know is, I got an anonymous tip that Stark and some of those other Greensword idiots might come around here tonight. And, I came with back-up, in case a couple of them turned out to be Gaian Garou. I didn't count on the tipster being a Slayer!"

As if on cue, there were three loud death-cries from behind the two rivals! Tate half-spun to his left, so he could partially keep an eye on Amelin. As a result, he saw the last three Gangrel that had surrounded Michelle. . .fall headless to the pebbled roof top of the school.

"Leave town," snarled Michelle: "The both of you. Tonight! Or else. . ."

She moved her left index finger across her throat in unmistakable symbolism. Then, she ran to the roof's edge, jumped down to the ground without the slightest hesitation, and ran off. Back in the direction of the Halfway Inn.

**tbc **


	22. Chapter 22

**One Small Leap For Sam**

**By Carycomic**

**Chapter 22.**

It was not that Michelle Webster was afraid of facing two vampires at once. After all; had she not already taken out all five of Amelin's subordinates, single-handedly? But, in between decapitating the fifth one, and turning to face Amelin and the new arrival, she had noticed some movement out towards the athletic field. Hurried movement, at that!

As if someone had been watching the events proceeding on the school rooftop and had decided to bolt for it. And, Michelle- -not failing to catch Amelin's shouted remark about an anonymous tipster that he had apparently mistaken for her- -decided to follow the bolter in question.

With her Slayer speed _(and, Man!, how she hated calling it that; it sounded more like a comic book super-power)_, she was able to traverse the intervening distance a lot faster than most student athletes on a cross-country racing team. Even so, the person she was trying to catch was a pretty good runner in his own right. Or, was it a "_her_"?

Because, the closer Michelle gradually got to her quarry, the more feminine its silhouette seemed to be!

Finally, the intervening distance had narrowed down from about a quarter-mile to fifty or so yards. At which point, Michelle's quarry veered to the left. Michelle wasted no time in doing the same thing. Then, the chase resumed a relatively straight course for about another fifty yards before Michelle's quarry veered left one last time. And, when she caught up to the point of departure, she skidded to a halt. Because, with her genetically-enhanced night vision, she had no trouble reading the black lettering on the gray "_snail-mail_" box.

"T. & S. GLATT"

And, that was when the realization hit her.

"I've been chasing the police chief's wife?!"

**BENTLEY HIGH SCHOOL,**

**DOS PUEBLOS, CALIFORNIA**

**SEPT. 15, 1993 (8:31 P.M.)**

Levi Tate looked down at the unconscious bodies of the police officers, and spoke to them in a tone that seemed to be a paradoxical cross between a whisper and a reverberating echo.

"Listen, closely, the three of you. When you awaken, this is what you will do."

Amelin was positively dumbfounded by the post-hypnotic instructions that were being semi-telepathically implanted in the minds of the three cops. And, when Levi Tate had finished, he declared: "I don't know if you're crazy, or a genius!"

The so-called "_magician_" looked at him.

"We have enough on our plate, with that machete-wielding Slayer. We don't need the additional headache of her obtaining allies before the birthday party!"

"Fine, then. I agree to partner up with you, only as long it takes to get Brian Stark and the rest of his family."

**SAM BECKETT'S P.O.V.**

**(5 MINUTES LATER)**

I don't remember blacking out. But, I must have, because the next thing I knew, I found myself opening my eyes and staring straight into the faces of Chief Glatt and two other policemen. And, as they were staring back at me, on a straight downward angle, I immediately figured out that I was flat on my back!

"Chief? Are you alright? Did we. . .?"

"Shut up!" he barked: "Smitty? Jonesy? Get him on his feet and 'cuff him!"

They followed his order with speed and grim efficiency.

"Wait a minute! What are you doing? I thought we had. . ."

"Harry D'Amour," he shouted over my protests: "You are under arrest as an accessory to the murder of six police officers in the line of duty. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say may be taken down and used against you in a court of law."

I spent the rest of that night in the same cell I had been locked up in when I first came to Dos Pueblos. With Al periodically running between there and the chief's office, to keep me abreast of what was happening. On the first such news run, he told me of Glatt's conversation with City Manager Hamilton.

"I don't believe this, Sam. He's telling him that you're acting as scout for the Russian Mob! That you're trying to wipe out all local resistance to the upcoming hit on Stark! So, Hamilton is going to have the local D. A. contact the FBI, and have them run a deep background check on you."

At seven o'clock, the next morning, Al woke me up with worse news.

"A couple of Feds named Doyle and Manetti have shown up. And, they're talking, with Glatt and the D. A. about transferring you to their custody. For the murder of one of their undercover operatives. Namely, that cabbie who tried to blow your head off while under Zoey's influence!"

What else could I say, except: "Oh, boy!"

**CHIEF GLATT'S OFFICE,**

**DOS PUEBLOS POLICE HQ. **

**SEPT. 16, 1993 (7:30 A.M.)**

"I'll be honest, gentlemen," declared District Attorney Bentley: "I don't know whether to shake your hands, or throw your asses in jail alongside D'Amour's. You had an undercover man in my town, all this time, and you never thought to give me the courtesy of letting me in on it?!"

"With all due respect, sir," said Agent Doyle: "We didn't know how strong Stark's familial ties might be, with regard to your department. It's now obvious, however, that the Bureau's fears were groundless. Such being the case, we'd really like your help in staking out Matthew Hamilton's place on the night of the 20th."

"On one condition," replied Tony Glatt: "That if Stark does show up, and we succeed in nabbing him, you'll take D'Amour with you, too. That smug bounty-hunting bastard has been nothing but trouble since he got here. And, I never want to see him in Dos Pueblos, again, as long as he lives!"

"You've got yourself a deal, Chief," affirmed Agent Manetti.

It was at this moment that the conversation of these four men was interrupted by the buzz of the intercom on Glatt's desk.

"Sorry to bother you, Chief. But, your wife is on Line 1. She says it's urgent."

"We have to go claim Agent Raffone's body, anyway," whispered Agent Doyle: "So, if somebody could guide us to the morgue?"

The D. A. volunteered for that duty. Whereupon, he preceded the two Federal agents out of the office, leaving Glatt alone to press the amber-colored light for Line 1.

"Hi, Stephanie. What's up?"

"Sorry to bother you, Tony. I just wanted to remind you that I won't be coming home straight after work. I have to attend the pep rally for our away game against Hamilton High. Followed by a trip to the mini-mall to pick up my dress for the centennial birthday bash."

"That? That's the urgent news? You couldn't call me at lunch, and tell me, then?"

"Well, at lunch time, I'll be too busy overseeing the cheerleaders' rehearsal to pick up a phone!"

"OK! OK! I'll see you when I see you, then."

The two Glatts hung up, almost simultaneously. Whereupon, the police chief returned to his paperwork. While the head coach of girls' sports, at Bentley High, turned to the entity standing next to her.

"Convenient excuse arranged, Thames. Now, what?"

"Now, we wait," replied Zoe's neuro-holographic observer.

**tbc **


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23.**

**OREGON STATE LINE**

**(SEPT. 16, 1993)**

It was eight o'clock, straight up, when the Kawasaki Ninja passed the green sign with white lettering that officially welcomed him to California. Five miles later, he read another sign. This one, with black lettering and a matching arrow that pointed southward.

"EUREKA 100 m

DOS PUEBLOS 350 m"

"Not much longer, son," whispered Brian Stark: "I'm on my way. I promise!"

And, with that, he gunned the motorcycle forward.

**SAM BECKETT'S P.O.V.**

It was District Attorney Carl Bentley who introduced me to Special Agents Doyle and Manetti.

"Let me guess," I said: "You're here to question me about the death of your undercover man."

They were both wearing sunglasses, so I couldn't see whether or not their eyes bulged in surprise. But, their bodily stances did instantly switch from nonchalant to rigidly tense. And, the D.A. looked at them with unmistakable shock!

"How on Earth. . .? the latter sputtered.

"Cellblock grapevine," I replied (unable to resist smirking like Al); "Today's gossip is tomorrow's top story on the 6PM news."

"In your case, Mr. D'Amour," said the agent to my left (Doyle, I think): ". . .that story will be about your arrest. Right now, though, we have to finish arranging for the transport of Agent Raffone's body back to Washington, D.C."

"So, sit tight, smart-aleck!" added his partner (presumably, Manetti): "Because, we'll be back for you, sooner than you think (or want)."

Two minutes after they left, I turned to Al and asked him (as sotto voce as possible) if there had been any further changes to the news stories Ziiggy could access about the "Hamilton Massacre." He consulted his data-link. . .and shook his head.

"While you managed to change history, with regard to the vandalism of the Driver's Ed car, the outcome of the centennial birthday party is still a blood bath. With Kurt and Brian Stark still listed among the fatalities! What are you gonna do, Sam?"

"I don't. . ." I began to remark when, suddenly, I felt an all-too familiar sensation.

"Oh, boy!" I muttered. . .as, once more, I leaped out for Who-Knows-Where-or-When.

* * * * *

**CHICAGO, ILLINOIS (1914)  
><strong>  
>"So long, Stewie-baby," chortled Anyanka: "Give my regards to Quor ' toth."<p>

The transmogrified being formerly known as Stewart Burns screamed in mingled fear and anger as the vengeance demoness flung him into the interdimensional portal she now closed as swiftly as she had first opened it.

"You do nice work," said a new (and decidedly male) voice, just behind her. Anyanka whirled about, prepared to defend herself, at all costs.

"Who are you?" she demanded of the new arrival (whose face clearly showed him to be a fellow demon of some kind).

"The name's Sahjahn. And I've come to tell you about a little vision I had of the future. Your future, to be precise! More specifically; your destruction at the hands of a mortal named. . .Xander Harris."

* * * * *

**SILICON VALLEY, CALIFORNIA (1990)  
><strong>  
>"I know for a fact that the human government agency called DARPA is working on a computer system that uses circuitry based on the cloned brain cells of a dolphin named 'Ziggy.' So, imagine how much more sophisticated _your_ corporation could be with a computer system based on the cloned brain cells of a Kindred Prince!"<p>

The CEO of Bromley Marks trained his unblinking eyes on the demon calling itself Sajahn.

"And, just which Kindred Prince did you have in mind?"

"An artistically brilliant antitribu of the Toreador Clan known as. . .Lothos."

* * * * *

**DOS PUEBLOS, CALIFORNIA  
>SEPTEMBER 16, 1993<br>(8:10 A.M./PST)**

The District Attorney answered his cellphone as he watched the two Federal agents accompany the morgue attendants, transporting the body bag, out the rear entrance of the morgue.

"Bentley."

"Hi, Dad. It's me."

"Char! So, glad to hear from you, dear. What can I do for you?"

"Well, right now, I'm shopping for a suitable present for Great-granddad. And, I thought that, if you weren't too busy later on, we could get together for lunch!"

"I'd like that. Especially, as it would finally give me a chance to meet this young man of yours. What's his name, again?"

"Zane; Zane Zaminksy."

"Oh, yes. The one who makes his living looking up at the stars."

He uttered that last part with mild (yet unmistakable) disdain.

"He's a radio astronomer, Dad. They _listen_ to the stars!"

"Whatever. It's still not a very impressive-sounding occupation. I mean, it's not like he could ever make practical use of it to. . .save the world or anything!"

Suddenly, there was a commotion in the hallway leading up to the main entrance of the morgue. Two second later, a police officer burst through its swinging double doors, a frantic expression upon his face!

"Mr. Bentley! Mr. Bentley! Come quick. That private eye we arrested has suddenly gone berserk!"

The D.A. mumbled a semi-audible apology to his daughter, before hurriedly hanging up and running after the police officer. And, when they got to the jail cell in question, they found its chief occupant being wrestled to the floor by his guards. Plastic binders around his wrists and ankles. And, with a police paramedic preparing to inject him in the upper arm with a hypodermic needle.

"I swear to you, I'm telling the truth!" screamed the struggling prisoner: "My name isn't Harry D'Amour. It's Chris. Chris Caulder!"

** tbc**


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24.**

**AREA 51, NEVADA (1988)**

Ted Buchanan's first android robot had basically been a clockwork-automated mannequin; wax exterior and all. Yet, the upgrades he had given to his second-generation model had been nothing less than revolutionary. And, admittedly, none of them would have been possible without his recruitment by the Pentagon to help them reverse-engineer all that _remarkable_ technology they had salvaged from Roswell, New Mexico!

Since then, however, Ted's original body had died of cancer. Leading to the transplantation of his brain into a _new_ Buchanandroid: Ted Three-Point-Oh.

"What do you think, Doctor?" asked his 'research assistant'.

"Astounding!" he/it exclaimed: "What was her name, again?"

"Samantha Pringle. She was technically brain-dead. But, she was reanimated by a cybernetics prodigy named Paul Conway using the same heuristic-processing microchip he had developed for his own quasi-A.I. robot! The DRI confiscated her body from campus security on the grounds that the technology the ill-fated Mr. Conway had employed was being financed by a Federal grant from the Dept. of Education."

'Ted' simulated a chuckle: "Very clever!"

"Thank you. This raises the question, though, of whether or not you think you can adapt this technology for our purposes."

"Neurosurgically-implanted behavior modifiers? Oh, my gosh, yes!"

Maggie Walsh turned to the closed-circuit TV monitor, and smilingly gave a thumb's-up sign to the image of Quentin Travers. The latter, watching this live from England, grinned and gave an identical gesture to someone off-camera.

Sahjhan grinned back, and time-shifted to his next appointment.

**CANADIAN CONSULATE,  
>CHICAGO, ILLINOIS (1992)<br>**  
>James Horton finished reading the official report that had been handed him by Gwendolyn Post. Basically, Katherine of Samothrace (currently known as "Dr. DelGreco" of Cook County General Hospital) had aided one Detective Nick Sutherland of SU2 against an Assamite vampire. One that had apparently been hired to kill a man named Lucius Snow.<p>

"I don't get it!" exclaimed the Watcher sector chief: "How could a semi-retired typesetter for the CHICAGO SUN-TIMES be a threat to Lothos of the Sabbat?"

"Mr. Snow seems to possess some kind of foreknowledge," replied the expatriate Englishwoman: "As he has somehow managed to be in the right place, at the right time, to avert all kinds of catastrophes! And, Lothos was evidently worried that this might extend to his attempt to wipe out the Red Court. Hence, the precautionary attempts to kill Mr. Snow."

"What about his caretaker nurse, Becky Granger? How is it she was able to display Slayer-level strength in assisting them?"

"Definitely an unknown quantity. Her body disappeared from the police morgue within an hour of its arrival. And, Lothos just plain escaped, altogether! Though, not unscathed. Nurse Granger tore off his right ear with her bare hands, even as she succumbed to blood loss!"

* * * * *

** SILICON VALLEY, CALIFORNIA  
>(ONE DAY LATER)<br>**  
>Charles Bromley tore the brown paper off of the special delivery he had just received from the Midwest. And, he grinned as he beheld the disembodied ear in a jar full of blood.<p>

* * * * *

** SUNNYDALE, CALIFORNIA  
>(SEPT. 10, 1993)<br>**  
>Bro'os arrived at the rendezvous on schedule.<p>

"Do you have the merchandise?" asked Anyanka.

The Rokean 'merchant' held up two plastic bags full of seawater.

"A dozen eggs laid by Plesiobatis lilliputensis. Six per bag. You got the payment?"

"One dozen Himalayans, as requested."

She then held up a box trap containing twelve brown-and-white long-haired kittens! All of them mewing, quite plaintively. Whereupon, Bro'os widened his already frightening grin and handed over the two plastic bags in even exchange. When that had been accomplished, he went on his way.

Only then did Sahjahn rematerialize.

"You didn't really hand over a bunch of helpless kittens. Did you?"

The vengeance demon looked at him, with a fiendish grin of her own.

"Of course not! Those were just baby Himalayan _rabbits_ (glamorized to look like cats). And, you know how much I hate rabbits."

* * * * *

**DOS PUEBLOS, CA.  
>(SEPT. 16, 1993)<br>**  
>It had been a fluke. At ten o'clock, that morning, Emma Stark had telephoned the Caulder residence. She did so in order to determine if Chris had remembered to sign up for the upcoming Red Cross blood drive on Columbus Day. If not as a blood donor, then as one of those chaperones who guide blood donors to the refreshment table after each sterilized bag has been filled to the brim.<p>

"After all," she had added: "... all the other girls on the cheer squad have done so."

Naturally, when he realized what she had just said, Louis Caulder had been completely stunned. A few minutes later, though, he and his wife Norma got in their car and drove to Western State University, in the nearby county seat. There, they demanded (well, actually, Louis did all the demanding; Norma merely did her best to keep him from going completely insane) an explanation from Chris' older sister, Julie. Whereupon, the latter revealed everything about her younger brother's cross-dressing. How it was originally meant as a onetime-only means of avoiding the incessant bullying of Kurt Stark and his gang. How he (Chris) had kept up the pretense because of the strong feelings he had developed for Stark's sister, Marie. And, how Stark, himself, had similarly developed strong feelings for "Christine!"

By the time she had finished, it was half past noon. And, it was difficult to tell who looked more crestfallen; Julie or her father. A professional gambler, however, would probably have bet on Louis. Because, the first thing the latter did, when he had regathered his wits, was to turn to Norma and emphatically state. . .

"This is all _your_ fault!"

"MY fault? ? ?"

"You wouldn't let him play with guns."

"Oh, come on, Dad!" snapped Julie, leaping to her mother's defense: "Get real!"

"Correction!" retorted Louis: "It's your brother who's got to get real! Where is he, right now? I mean, what classes does he have at Bentley, at this hour, on Thursdays?"

"Usually, cheer practice, followed by lunch period and music class. But, today, the Athletic Department is holding a special pep rally at two. So, he and the rest of the. . ."

She stopped herself, just in time, from saying "girls."

"... squad will be brown-bagging it through an extended practice."

Louis looked at his watch.

"Crap! It's already quarter of one."

"And, at this time of day," observed his wife: "... it'll take ninety minutes, minimum, to get back to town."

* * * * *

** BENTLEY HIGH SCHOOL  
>(90 MINUTES LATER)<br>**  
>Anyanka and Sahjahn looked down through the skylight at the assemblage in the gym.<p>

"Here he comes to the front of the line!" the demoness chortled with glee.

"What are you waiting for, then?" huffed the incorporeal time-shifter: "You already know what Marie wished for, earlier."

"Not until he takes off the wig in front of everybody else," Anyanka insisted.

Which is exactly what happened, two seconds later. Prompting the vengeance demon to compel Sam Beckett's latest leap!

** tbc**

**Mini-glossary**

Cook County General Hospital: setting for the NBC/Michael Crichton medical drama "ER."

Lucius Snow: Gary Hobson's predecessor on EARLY EDITION.

Red Court: governing body for the vampiric population of the Windy City in the "HARRY DRESDEN" novels (and one-season TV spin-off).

SPECIAL UNIT 2: top-secret arm of the Chicago Police Department that battles supernatural evil.

Samantha Pringle: from the 1986 movie DEADLY FRIEND, played by Kristy Swanson who you may remember played Buffy in the in the movie version of BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER.

Paul Conway: also from DEADLY FRIEND, played by Matthew Labyorteaux, who you may remember from LITTLE HOUSE ON THE PRAIRIE.

Ted Buchanan: played by John Ritter on the Buffy TV show, an android that dated Buffy's mom for an episode.

Quentin Travers: one of the heads of the Watcher organization that keeps track of the vampire slayers.

Sahjhan: A reoccurring villain on ANGEL, played by Jack Conley.

James Horton: a rogue Watcher from the HIGHLANDERS TV series.

Gwendolyn Post: a rogue Watcher from the BUFFY TV series.

Katherine of Samothrace: an ancient Greek Immortal from the HIGHLANDER TV series, played by Claudia Christian.

Charles Bromley: from the movie DAYBREAKERS.

Bro'os: a demonic loan shark with real shark-like features from the BUFFY TV series.

Anyanka: a vengeance demon from the BUFFY TV series.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25.  
><strong>

**BENTLEY HIGH SCHOOL  
>DOS PUEBLOS, CAL.<br>SEPT. 16, 1993  
>(2:15 P.M.PST)  
><strong>  
>"As you know," said Lynne Parker (the head varsity cheerleader): ". . .it's our custom to elect a new pep captain to take over for the departing senior of the squad after graduation. Here to say a few words on her own behalf is the first candidate for that position: Chris Caulder!"<p>

The blonde junior stepped up to the microphone and nervously cleared "her" throat.

"Well, first of all, I'd just like to say that I like Bentley a lot. And, I'm going to keep coming here! But, I'm tired of deciding what clothes to wear."

Naturally, there was a chorus of puzzled murmurs from the audience. Except for "Coach Glatt," that is; she merely smiled in anticipation. Carefully positioning the BHS pennant in her right hand closer to her mouth. A minute later, she brought it fully to her lips, while everyone else's attention was focused on the flat-chested "girl" who had just doffed his yellow wig!

Whatever else he had been about to confess, however, was interrupted. . .by the sudden entrance of Sam Beckett's mind into Chris Caulder's body. A pause that "Coach Glatt" used to her advantage. With one strong exhalation of breath, she sent a dart tipped with "shrink ray" venom flying on its way toward the left side of the young cross-dresser's neck!

Where it landed dead on target.

* * * * *

** SAM BECKETT'S P.O.V.  
><strong>  
>One moment, I had been talking to Al in the city jail at DPPD Headquarters. And, the next thing I knew, I was standing before some kind of high school assembly.<p>

"The pep rally!" I instantly thought to myself: "I've leaped forward at least six. . ."

That's when I felt a sharp stinging sensation on the left side of my neck.

"Ouch!" I yelped aloud, instinctively slapping at the spot with my left hand.

I removed whatever had stung me. Yet, before I could get a good look at it, everything went dark! Not like I was fainting, mind you. Because, I didn't feel myself falling forward before the black-out. Rather, I had a sudden blockage of my inner ears. Like I did when I had landed at LAX, after my first-ever commercial flight from Indiana to the West Coast. But, while I couldn't see anything, I could certainly hear a thunderous commotion out beyond the pitch blackness. People shouting and screaming and excitedly asking questions with such over-lapping speed, I couldn't understand what they were inquiring about!

Then, somebody turned the lights back on. Temporarily blinding me. And, by the time my eyes had adjusted, my initial thought was that I'd been blowgun-drugged with some kind of hallucinogen. Because, I found myself surrounded by thirteen open-mouthed cheerleaders wearing purple-and-gold sweaters over white pleated mini-skirts.

And, every single one of them looked a hundred feet tall!

It was at this point that the lights went out, again. As one of the cheerleaders (a raven-haired brunette, with her hair pony-tailed by a white scrunchie) suddenly knelt down and scooped me up in her right hand.

* * * * *

Upon the roof of the high school gym, Anyanka was rejoicing.

"Yes-yes-YES! We did it."

"We certainly did," agreed Sahjahn: "But, now, I have to report our success to the higher authority I work for. So, as they used to say in Ethiopia; 'Abyssinia!' "

Whereupon, the latter time-shifted back to the 21st century offices of Shieldcorp.

Meanwhile, back at the Halfway Inn, Michelle Webster entered Merrick Jamison-Smythe's room, in answer to a note she had found on the night stand next to her room's bed. A note informing her that he had just received some vital information from the Watcher's Council, and which she needed to hear upon her return from "patrol."

Upon closing the door to Room 403, however, her progress was suddenly halted by a piezo-electric force field generated by a circle of magic crystals! A circle that had been open. . .until the closed door completed the circuit.

"What the frig...?" she began to exclaim.

Merrick came out of the bathroom carrying an empty plastic water bottle. . .and a .38 caliber snubnose revolver.

"Sorry, my dear. But, I finally grew tired of you running off to avoid answering my questions! So, I've decided to 'force' the issue."

"That's not funny, Merrick. And, neither is this. Let me out of here!"

"Not until you've told me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. You see, while you were out, I took the liberty of replaying the images you first showed me via that scrying stone."

He nodded in affirmation upon seeing the shocked look of disbelief on her face.

"Oh, yes! I know a few spells for activating such crystals myself. As that force cage should obviously evince. And, now I know that you were only being half-truthful with me when we first met! So, tell me the rest. Or, I swear to God, I will shoot you between the eyes, right here and now, and decapitate you while you're regenerating!"

To emphasize the point, he inserted the mouth of the handgun into the open neck of the bottle.

"If it helps," the Englishman continued: ". . .to make it even easier, for you, we'll start with your _true_ name. What is it?"

Michelle knew he meant every word of his threat. So, she bowed her head and complied.

"Alia."

Sahjahn materialized before the A.I. known as Lothos, and saw that Zoey Zantosa was already there. Kneeling in complete subservience before the cube-shaped hologram projector. So, he pretended to do likewise.

"Welcome home, Sahjahn! Zoey tells me that congratulations are in order."

"Thank you, Milord. And, she is correct. The body of Chris Caulder has been shrunken down to two inches tall. With the mind of Sam Beckett trapped within it, courtesy of Anyanka's magic! As for Chris Caulder's mind? His protestations will insure a life-long commitment, in the nearest 20th century mental hospital, for the body of Harry D'Amour!"

"Which, of course," added Zoey: ". . .further insures the death of Xander Harris at the centennial birthday party."

"Where is the real Michelle Webster?" continued Merrick: "In relation to your time period, I mean."

Alia sighed: "She's dead. Beheaded by an antitribu Gangrel named Amelin. Because, I told you the truth about that much. Michelle was an Immortal! But, she was more than that to me. She. . . .she was. . ."

"Your lover?" Merrick prompted.

Alia nodded; her eyes beginning to moisten. So, Merrick paused a moment before resuming the interrogation.

"And, this youngster, Xander Harris. What is so special about him that you would astrally project into your lover's past self? Risking premature activation of her Immortality, in the process?"

Alia looked up and stared the Englishman straight in the eye.

"If I can prevent his death at Matt Hamilton's birthday party, he might save the life of a Slayer named Buffy Summers, later on. And, in saving her life, she might also prevent the activation of an artificial intelligence named Lothos! Because, in my time, it's not Charles Bromley that runs Shieldcorp. It's Lothos. Everyone else- -even Bromley- -is forced to obey him. Through the use of behavior modification chips that were surgically implanted in their brains!"

**BENTLEY HIGH SCHOOL,**

**DOS PUEBLOS, CAL.**

**09/16/93 (2:39 P.M./PST)**

"So, let me get this straight," said the police officer: "Your daughter, Chris, is really your _son_?"

Louis Caulder glumly nodded: "He felt compelled to. . .disguise himself. . .to escape the incessant persecution of Kurt Stark and his fellow bullies."

"But, Stark and his cronies have been missing for almost four days!" protested the officer: "So, why didn't Chris just resume wearing boys' clothes? Why continue this weird charade?"

"I'll tell you why!" Marie Stark exclaimed (in answering this same question from the first officer's partner): 'Because he's no different from any other boy my age! Only interested in one thing. And, he thought this would be the best way to accomplish it!"

"I see. And, do you have any idea how he managed to literally drop out of sight, in front of all these people?"

The second officer motioned to the bleacher load of witnesses still waiting to be interviewed.

Marie shrugged: "Maybe you should ask a professional magician. There's one staying at the Halfway Inn! The same one who was hired to perform at my great-grandfather's upcoming birthday party, in fact."

"Thank you, ma'am. We'll do just that."

As the police had finished interviewing all the other cheerleaders, Marie, Lynne, and the rest of the squad were free to head back to the girls' locker room. Which they subsequently did, as swiftly as possible!

Once they were inside, Lynne fished the current object of police inquiry out from underneath her sweater.

"OK, small fry. Start talking!"

**tbc **


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26.  
><strong>by Carycomic

**BENTLEY HIGH SCHOOL,  
>DOS PUEBLOS, CALIFORNIA<br>SEPTEMBER 16, 1993  
>(2:45 P.M.PST)**

**SAM BECKETT'S P.O.V.  
><strong>  
>"OK, small fry. Start talking!"<p>

I hardly knew where to begin. If only because my current situation was supposed to be scientifically impossible! A human being, shrunken to about (_or, rather, what I instinctively estimated to be_) two inches tall?! Yet, here I was. Literally in the palm of a young girl's hand! I looked at all the other giantesses gazing down at me. In addition to my captor, there were two other brunette Caucasians; four blondes (_including Marie Stark_); one Native American girl; one Hawaiian; and four of Asiatic heritage (_Chinese, Japanese, Filipina, and East Indian_). Each one of them with the same mixed look of disbelief and anger.

My captor (_Lynne, I'm pretty sure I had heard her called_) brought me closer to her face.

"I said. . . START TALKING!"

I covered my ears in a semi-futile attempt to keep from going deaf.

"What do you wish to know?" I yelled back, trying to stall for time.

"Well, for starters, why were you posing as a girl, _'Ms.'_ Caulder?"

That one was easy.

"Initially, I did it to hide from her brother," I pointed to Marie: ". . .and his three stooges. It never occurred to me that I'd be asked to join the cheer squad. Or, begin to bond with. . .any of you . . the way I have."

Marie's criss-crossed arms fell to her sides

"Bull! You just wanted to get in my pants, the same as Jon. Admit it!"

"That's not true!" I exclaimed.

"Oh, really?" she retorted, with a sadistic grin: "Then, how else do you explain my wish coming true? The one about the next guy to make me feel small being made to feel the same way?"

"If wishes were wings," I paraphrased: ". . .pigs would be able to fly."

"Then, I guess we better start looking for pig-shaped UFO's," retorted Lynne.

Marie and all the other cheerleaders laughed.

* * * * *

**STALLION'S GATE, NEW MEXICO  
>(AUGUST 17, 2000 A.D.)<strong>

**HARRY D'AMOUR'S P.O.V.  
><strong>  
>I had seen a lot of weird stuff in my time. Most of which would have sent less open-minded people to the nearest insane asylum! But, time travel via computer-enhanced astral projection? And, by a guy who could pass for the twin brother I never had?!<p>

That was definitely a first.

From what I'd been told by this Admiral Calavicci, his friend Sam usually occupied someone else's body just long enough to prevent whatever personal tragedy had ruined his or her life in the first place. But, from the commotion I was witnessing now, I'd have to deduce (_as Sherlock Holmes would say_) that some unforeseen crap had just hit the proverbial fan.

"What do you mean you can't find him, Gooshie?"

"Just that, Admiral! Ziggy says he's no longer in Mr. D'amour's body. Yet, she can't find any trace of where and when he leaped to, next!"

"Then, why is Harry still in Sam's body?"

"I can formulate no rational explanation for that, as yet, Admiral," replied Ziggy in her sultry synthetic voice.

"Then, to paraphrase Sir Arthur Conan Doyle," I chimed in: " _'Once you've eliminated the rational, whatever's left (however irrational), must be the truth!_' "

"American translation?" Calavicci demanded.

"Sam was trying to determine, among other things, how Chris Caulder disappeared in front of an entire pep rally. The disappearance seemingly supernatural. But, she's disappeared none the less. And, now, so has Sam! Ergo; I don't think there's anymore seemingness about it. Something _definitely_ supernatural has happened, here, and it's jamming Ziggy's radar (_or whatever she uses to pinpoint Sam_). So, your only alternative, now, is to send _me_ back."

"Are you crazy?!" Calavicci exclaimed: "Assuming what you're saying is true, then something supernatural could now be in _your_ body back in 1993. Which means, if your mind trades places with it,. . ."

I shrugged: "Like I said, Admiral; no alternative."

Calavicci meditatively chewed on his cigar, for a minute. Then, he -quite reluctantly- nodded.

"This way to the QL accelerator."

* * * * *

** HANSEN'S ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA  
>SEPT. 16, 1993 (8:45 P.M.EST)  
><strong>  
>Officially, it was a VA (<em>Veterans' Administration<em>) hospital. But, in reality? It was a dumping ground for every undercover operative who had gone Section 8 while serving the Federal government, above and beyond the call of top-secret duty! And, it was here that the DRI had brought Harry D'amour for what they euphemistically called "_covert interrogation_."

"Hi ya," said one of the inmates, a young man with a Roman nose and dark brown hair. "You must be new here. What's your name?"

"It's Chris; Chris Caulder!" exclaimed the slightly older man while nervously pacing, back and forth. "They keep calling me '_Harry_,' for some reason. But, it's Chris, I tell you! Chris-Chris-CHRIS! ! !"

"Nice to meet you, Chris. I'm Frank Parker."

**ROOM 504, HALFWAY INN,**

**DOS PUEBLOS, CALIF.**

**SEPT. 16, 1993**

**(3:00 P.M./PST)**

"How's tricks, Dwight?"

Levi Tate immediately put on his most frightening "_game face_," the moment he heard his real name mentioned.

"Relax!" exclaimed Sahjahn. "It's only me."

"You're lucky you're already intangible," growled the renegade Tremere: "Otherwise, I might have accidentally torn you limb from limb. . .and not regretted it, afterward, in the slightest."

"Aw!" replied Sahjahn, with as much sincere regret as he could fake. "And, here, I came all the way back in time to tell you the good news. Harry D'amour is en route to an East Coast mental hospital, even as we speak. So he no longer poses any threat to the resurrection of El Puritano!"

"Are you sure about that? My sire was positive Swann would never betray _him_! And, look what happened there."

"I'm telling you, after Monday night, you'll be so in good with the Order of Teraka; they won't have any objection to _you_ putting out a contract on Swann. In the meantime, though, you might want to get rid of the other three guinea pigs in the bird cage. Kurt Stark is the only one of them who has to be found among the casualties."

**MEANWHILE, IN ROOM 403. . .**

"So, this was never about preventing establishment of the O-Shield, at all," observed Merrick: "You were merely trying to save the life of this Harris youngster. And, by slaying this Amelin's present-day counterpart, save the life of your future lover, as well."

"For, the most part, yeah," Alia replied: "But, I wasn't lying about Zane Zaminsky. . .or Shieldcorp. I learned about Greensword's plans from Amelin, himself! One of the Chimaeran patrols captured him, a week after he took Michelle's head. And, it was while he was being '_questioned_' that he spilled the beans about having a spy in Greensword's ranks! That was when I volunteered for the leap back, with a three-fold mission. NOW, will you let me out of here?"

Merrick thought about it, for a moment. Then, he nodded. Putting the gun and "_ghetto silencer_" away, before stooping down to remove two of the magic crystals out of alignment. Thereby, deactivating the force field.

"So, what now?" demanded Alia.

"Now," replied Merrick: ". . .we use the remainder of this weekend to plan our strategy for the centennial birthday party of Matthew Hamilton."

The Kawasaki Ninja whipped by the green-and-white sign welcoming motorists to Dos Pueblos. But, not so fast that Brian Stark had not seen it. . .and grimly smiled to himself.

"Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home."

**SAM BECKETT'S P.O.V.**

When I couldn't answer the question of my shrinkage, to their satisfaction, the Bentley High cheerleaders gathered together in a huddle. I was sure they were conferring about me. But, I couldn't overhear what precisely they were saying, as Lynne had clenched her right hand into a fist. Shrouding me in darkness, and completely restraining my movements. When she re-opened her fist, I had to momentarily shield my eyes from the blinding light. By the time my vision readjusted, I could see a most unpleasant smile on her face. One mirrored on the faces of all the other cheerleaders. Especially Marie Stark's!

"Here's what we've decided. Since you wanted to join our cheer squad, so badly, then we so no reason for you to ever leave it. Each one of us is going to take personal care of you, each night, for the rest of this school year. And when we graduate in June? You'll be passed on to the next varsity squad! As for tonight? I offered to let Marie take care of you. But, she's still so pissed off at you that she might yield to the temptation to squash you like the bug you're now as big as!"

"So, tonight, I get first dibs on you."

And, with that, the other cheerleaders helped rearrange her hair, by rearranging the scrunchie so it no longer formed a pony-tail. Rather, they strapped it horizontally across her hair, dividing it into two layers. With the upper layer hiding me, from prying eyes, as I now dangled from the scrunchie by my wrists!

**tbc **


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27.**

**DOS PUEBLOS, CALIF.**

**(SEPT. 17, 1993)**

**SAM BECKETT'S P.O.V.**

I spent my first night in shrunken captivity, bound-and-gagged (_with Scotch tape_), in Lynn Parker's top dresser!

I still could not believe such a thing was possible. Of course, ten years earlier, most people would have said the same thing about time travel! But, even so, a complete loss of height as well as weight? There was only one explanation that fit the facts. And, that was assuming I was not undergoing some comatose nightmare or drug-induced hallucination.

I had undergone some kind of controlled proton decay. That is; some of the protons of my body's molecular structure had evidently decayed into neutral pions and neutrinos. Yet, as far as I knew, there was no technology advanced enough to cause such a radical change in a living organism! Then, it came to me. What if, just before the end of the Cold War, the Soviet Union had been working on bio-miniaturization, through controlled proton decay, the way I'd been helping Uncle Sam make time travel a reality?

I don't know when I finally fell asleep. The only proof that I had done so came with the thunderous sound of the dresser drawer being opened, and the light of a new day temporarily blinding me.

"Rise and shine, squirt," I heard my captress gloat: "I brought you some breakfast."

She removed the strip of Scotch tape over my mouth none too gently. Then, she put me down atop her dresser next to a thimble full of orange juice . . .and a couple crumbs of butter-soaked biscuit.

I looked up at her: "Could you, at least, untie my hands, please?"

Lynn maliciously grinned and shook her head.

"What for? You wouldn't be able to use 'em right away, anyway, after being tied up all night. So, just lap them up like a dog, Chris. A shrunken horn dog, that is!"

With no other choice in the matter, I reluctantly complied. When I was done, she re-gagged with a fresh sliver of Scotch tape. Then, into her purse, I went. I won't bore you with a long-winded spiel about the monotony of waiting for her to leave for school. Followed by the frantic activity of dodging all her stuff, inside the purse, as she walked to the bus stop. Suffice it to say that the latter exhausted me enough that I fell asleep, again.

When I woke up, it was apparently lunch time. Because, Lynn was once more associating with her fellow varsity cheerleaders. And, being seniors (for the most part), they were allowed to dine outside, in the courtyard parallel to the school cafeteria proper.

"OK, squirt," Lynn whispered: "I'm going to un-gag you, again. You try screaming for help, or begging us to let you go, I'll re-gag you right on the spot. And, you won't get anything till suppertime at your new keeper's house! Understood?"

I glared at her, but I nodded. And, again, the non-gentle way she removed the tape made me instinctively yeIp. Much to the giggling delight of the other cheerleaders, who I was promptly passed around to. Each of them feeding me scraps of French fries. Followed by the sucking of spring water droplets off their index fingers.

**HALFWAY INN,**

**DOS PUEBLOS, CAL.**

**(12:30 P.M./PST)**

"Gregor Buza" had checked into Room 502 nearly ten hours ago. And, he had been sleeping fitfully, ever since. Because, he knew that his son's disappearance was probably some diabolical trap set up by the Russian Mob. Yet, that was all the more reason he had to find Kurt! He owed it to the boy and his sister not to let them suffer for his sins. With that in mind, he got his back pack from underneath the motel room bed...and withdrew a Spanish-made Superstar semi-automatic pistol in nine millimeter.

With a precision and meticulousness born of long years of doing so, he field-stripped the handgun, then carefully reassembled it. Hopefully, he would not need it on Monday night! But, where the Russian Mob was concerned, it was better to be silly than sorry.

Then, suddenly, his whole posture went rigid.

**STALLION'S GATE, NEW MEXICO**

**(AUGUST 17, 2000)**

**HARR D'AMOUR'S P.O.V.**

"Ready, Harry?" shouted Admiral Calavicci.

He had to, as the volume in this chamber kept increasing until it reached a barely tolerable peak! So, I clenched my right fist, and flashed him a thumb's-up, with an adventurous grin on my face. Then, he looked up at the hybrid computer.

"Ready, Ziggy?"

"All systems 100% operational, Admiral."

"Then, let her rip! ! !"

The last thing I saw of this strange-but-wonderful place, called "Project: Quantum Leap," was a web of bluish-white light.

**HANSEN''S ISLAND,**

**SOUTH CAROLINA**

**(SEPT. 17, 1993)**

**FRANK PARKER'S P.O.V.**

"OK, Parker," said the muscle-bound orderly who unlocked the door to my room: "Behave yourself. These gentlemen are here for your new roommate. Not you!"

"Aye-aye, sir!" I replied. . .sarcastically saluting him, with my thumb against the bridge of my nose.

"Good afternoon, Mr. D'Amour," said Agent Doyle (or was it Manetti?): "We hope you slept well."

"Yeah," added Manetti (or was it Doyle?): "Because we have several questions to ask you. And, the more honestly you answer them, the quicker we'll be through."

"D'Amour?" echoed the man (who last night had insisted he was named Chris Caulder): "Who the frig's D'Amour? My name is Buza. Gregor Buza!"

**HARRY D'AMOUR'S P.O.V.**

I looked at the face of the guy in the mirror. Caucasian; mid-to-late forties; dark brown eyes; plus, sandy-brown hair and matching mutton-chop beard, with gray starting to occur just below the ear lobes. And, a deceptively husky stomach.

It had worked! I had just traveled through time and into another man's body.

**STALLION'S GATE, NEW MEXICO**

**(AUGUST 17, 2000)**

Al entered the Waiting Room.

"Sam? Sam, is that you?"

"Why does everyone keep getting my name wrong?!" exclaimed the body of Sam Beckett: "My name isn't Sam or Harry. . .or even Tom-and-Dick! It's Chris. Chris Caulder of Dos Pueblos, California!"

"Oh, boy!" was all the semi-retired admiral could mutter in dismay. But, then, he pulled himself, together.

"Hi, Chris. I'm Al. What's the last thing you remember before you found yourself, here?"

"I was in some kind of nut house with a guy named Parker. Then, I got injected with some kind of heavy-duty sedative. The next thing I know, I'm talking to you! ! What the frig is going on here? In fact. . .WHERE IS HERE?!"

**HALFWAY INN, ROOM 502**

**(SEPTEMBER 17, 1993)**

**HARRY D'AMOUR'S P.O.V.**

I was looking through my host body's credentials, and other personal effects, when there came a knock at his hotel room door. Hefting his Superstar semi-auto in my right hand, I crab-stepped over to the door; put the chain on it; and, then, looked through the peep hole.

I saw a brown-bearded skinny guy with a battered old brown fedora

"Yes?" I called out through the door.

"Mr. Brian Stark? My name is Merrick. And, I have reason to believe you and your family are in danger."

**tbc**


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28.**

It had been a turbulent two hundred years for Levi Tate.

He had been born and raised in eighteenth-century Gibraltar as Dwight Reynard Elphinston. The scion of a cadet branch of the Cumberland (UK) Elphinstones. He was also descended from a long line of privateers dating back to the Elizabethan Period. And, like every single one of his patrilineal forebears, he owed most of his own success at that endeavor to the weather wizardry he had studied as a member of House Tharsis of the Order of Hermes!

Unfortunately, for him, it was while privateering against the Turkish navy, during the Greek War of Independence, that Dwight met his downfall in that regard.

It was 1827. He had been on shore leave in Valletta, Malta. There, he crossed paths with a Barbary pirate captain whose ship and crew were serving as French naval corsairs on behalf of the Greeks. The two of them got into what was supposed to be a friendly drinking bout. But, the morning afterward, Dwight learned the harsh truth.

He had been Embraced.

It seems that, back in the sixteenth century, there had been a sub-sect of Clan Tremere called Los Alumbrados ("The Enlightened Ones"). Most of who were wiped out, in the early seventeenth century, by Celestial Choristers working for the Spanish Inquisition. The only survivor was their leader: El Puritano ('the Pure One"). And he subsequently fled to North Africa. Eventually rising to power among the infamous Barbary pirates, there, by posing as an antitribu dhampir of the Greek Mariner Gangrel.

The self-proclaimed "Lord Nyx."

Dwight was naturally outraged at hearing how Nyx had manipulated him into half-drunkenly volunteering to be vampirized. Yet, for all his now-compounded magical power, there was nothing he could do to break the newly forged blood-bond between himself and the old trimera! That is; not until seventy years later. . .

. . .when the Order of Hermes completely disbanded House Tharsis.

Collectively stripped of their magical powers, in absentia, half the expelled members of that house went on to join the alchemical Children of Knowledge in Europe. The other half joined the technocratic future Sons of Ether in America. And Dwight happily counted himself among the latter. For he saw the burgeoning field of aeronautics as a fascinating-yet-logical extension of the mystic art form that had allowed his ancestors to become such famous seafarers.

Consequently, he went on to serve in World War I as "Captain Dwight Wren" of the Lafayette Escadrille. Later, during the Second World War, he spied for the Allies by posing as a German-American defector named "Stefan Kaiser Rheinfeld" (alias "Group Capt. Renfield" of the RAF Eagle Squadrons). That, in turn, led to his Cold War career as "Levi Tate", a freelance mole for the CIA spying on the KGB by serving as a free-lance killer with the Order of Teraka!

Dwight (or "Levi," as he ultimately preferred to be called) came to revel in the deceit. Not only because he found it more dangerously thrilling than even aerobatic flying, itself. But, also, because he had an innate love for trickery, in general. One that he had inherited from the same source as his fascination with the heavens.

His mother.

She had been a ragabash of the Stargazer Garou!* A fact that she had withheld from her future husband when she first met him. Telling him, instead, that she was a Moon-Seeker of the Verbenae. And it was this part of her son's dual heritage that El Puritano had sensed at their own fateful first meeting in Malta. Making an attempt to vampirize the latter irresistible to the old trimera.

Such being the case, one might be inclined to wonder why this vampiric stage mage was working so closely, with the time-shifting Sahjahn, to try and kill a mortal private investigator he had never even heard of before? The answer was alarmingly simple. To doubly insure Dwight Elphinstone's loyalty, beyond the blood-bond, "Lord Nyx" had hired necromancers of the Venetian Giovanni Clan to abduct and kill Dwight's mother. . .and then reanimate her body.

Hiding it in a place known only to them.

After decades of searching in vain for her, on his own, Levi Tate had been contacted by Sahjahn. The latter telling him that the only one who might be able to answer the former's questions was El Puritano himself. And, the old trimera had been slain by his own chief acolyte, Phillip Swann, nearly a decade earlier!

But, hope might yet prevail if one Harry D'Amour was killed two years _before_ he was seemingly pre-destined to interfere with El Puritano's resurrection, circa 1995.

**HALFWAY INN, DOS PUEBLOS, CAL.**

**(HARRY D'AMOUR'S P.O.V.)**

"I'm sorry," I called through the door: "You must have the wrong room. There's nobody in here by that name!"

Which was true enough, in a sense. As all the personal identification I had found, in searching my host body's things, all bore the name "Gregor Buza."

"Come now, Mr. Stark," the brown-bearded Englishman replied: "Such trepidation is worthier of a ragabash rather than an ahroun."

I hurriedly unlocked the motel room door. You see, I had heard those two words only once before. Back in 1990, during a missing persons' case involving an ex-college kid named Eric Cord. . .and a Mafioso-like werewolf named Nicholas Remy.

"Get in here," I now commanded the Englishman (using the Superstar as added incentive).

"Who are you?" I demanded, after he had complied: "And how do you know about the Garou?"

"Because my name is Merrick Jamison-Smythe. And I'm a homid Kinsman of the Silver Fang tribe. Philodox auspice."

**HALFWAY INN,  
>ROOM 403<br>SEPT. 17, 1993  
>(5 MIN. EARLIER)<br>**  
>"Well?" inquired Merrick, when Michelle returned from her self-described "snooping around."<p>

"I found his Kawasaki Ninja, just as it was described in the historical records back home. So, right now, he should be in Room 502. Under the name, 'Gregor Buza.' "

"That's an odd alias," replied the Englishman, with great puzzlement.

"Not for him," she retorted (with a grin): "And, here's why."

When she had finished explaining, she added that Merrick should be very careful.

"He's most likely armed with an Echevarria Superstar he obtained from a Shore Patrol buddy stationed in Cadiz, Spain. And, he knows how to use it to good effect!"

**ROOM 502  
>(5 MIN. LATER)<strong>

**HARRY D'AMOUR'S P.O.V.  
><strong>  
>"What the frig's a philodox?" I half-pretended to demand: "Some sort of pack leader?"<p>

"If the Garou in question is a shapeshifter, born under a half-moon, yes. But, non-morphics of the same auspice (such as myself) are more often employed as diplomatic emissaries to large-scale groups of vampire hunters. . ."

"You mean, like the Council of Watchers?" I interrupted him.

It was a figurative stab in the dark. Using what little information Admiral Calavicci had felt it was chronologically safe to share with me. But, from the way Merrick's posture slightly stiffened, and his eyebrows arched, I knew my stab had hit a nerve, causing me to grin a little smugly.

"How did you. . .?" he began to ask. I cut him off, though.

"I'm the one asking the questions here! And, my next one is: what makes you think 'Gregor Buza' isn't my real name?"

This time, he was the one with a smug grin on his face.

"Three things, actually. Point one: the only time the _real_ Gregor ever set foot outside his hometown of Santa Claus, Indiana, is when he served in Vietnam. As a U.S. Army Ranger, with Company D of the 151st Infantry Regiment! Point two: the top of your right hand bears a tattoo which reads; 'BUDS ' 66.' An obvious reference to the U.S. Navy's Basic Underwater Demolition School (the mandatory first step in SEAL team training). And, 1966 is the year Brian Stark graduated from there! Last, but not least? Point 3: Brian Stark and Gregor Buza briefly worked together during a top-secret, joint service mission to Cambodia. Something called Operation: Toc Faan. And, that's the same mission on which Jacob Hamilton, Jr. was killed."

I decided to lower the Superstar and reholster it. "You're surprisingly well-informed, Mr. Merrick.

First, he corrected me by reminding me that Merrick was his first name, not his last. Then, he told me how some of his fellow Watchers had been keeping a special eye on me. As it was not every day that a homid-born Garou of the Bonegnawer tribe married a selkie (as my host body's parents evidently had)!

** tbc**

This installment is respectfully dedicated to the works of Clive Barker, Stephen King, and Elizabeth Athineu.

Ever gratefully yours: Carycomic

**Postscript**

**Ragabash:** Garou term for a sort of ritual trickster or tribal court jester.

**Ahroun:** the warrior caste of a Garou tribe.

**Philodox:** the scholarly ruling caste of a Garou tribe (usually only in peace time, though).

**Auspice:** the generic term for a Garou tribe's caste system, as determined by the lunar phase of each new generation's birth.


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29.**

*** * * * ***

**HANSEN'S ISLAND  
>(SEPT. 17, 1993)<strong>

**FRAN PARKER'S P. O. V.  
><strong>  
>My new roommate was back. During the interim he was gone, he appeared to do have developed a triple personality! And, I thought my solitary confinement in a Somalian guerrilla sweat box had left _me_ with mental issues.<p>

"So, your name is Brian Stark, now, huh?" I sarcastically asked: "Any relation to Anton Stark?"

He glared at me in sudden suspicion.

"That's my old man! How do you know him?"

"Are you kidding?" I declared: "He's the chief paper-pusher in this overgrown booby hatch."

* * * * *

**HARRY D'AMOUR'S P.O.V.**

"A selkie?" I echoed (only half-pretending to be puzzled): "You mean, one of those Celtic mermaids who cross-dress as sea lions?"

"Grey seals, actually,* " corrected Merrick: "But, perhaps, I should explain from the beginning. Your parents met in London, during World War Two. He was a Bone Gnawer serving in the U. S. Army K-9 Corps as a veterinarian. While she was a Royal Navy nurse from the Shetland Islands. They got married after a whirlwind romance. And, it was on V-E Day that they discovered she was pregnant!"

"The morning afterward, however, she disappeared. And it wasn't till nine months later that Anton Stark learned why. It seems he had married a wulver! Half-Fenrir Garou; half-selkie. And, as that technically made you a metis, your mother was compelled by age-old Garou custom to give you up for adoption to the Children of Gaia. One of whose theurges delivered these ill-tidings to your father."

"I see," I replied (my arms skeptically criss-crossed): "And, how did Dear Old Dad take this news?"

"Not well. He went ronin, in fact! Affiliating himself with some hush-hush American outfit, called the Initiative, as a special consultant on Garou behavioral psychology. Nowadays, though, he has a new title: 'Assistant Director of Banality Induction.' "

"You mean, he brainwashes people to be dull?"

"No. He brainwashed werewolves and other supernatural creatures to lead what he considers 'normal' lives. And he does so through a combination of narco-hypnosis, electroshock therapy, and selective neurosurgery!"

**HANSEN'S ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA  
>(FRANK PARKER'S P. O. V.)<br>**  
>I could not believe this. My new roommate gets taken away for "individual counseling" (as Gregor Buza); and, ninety minutes later, he's brought back. Claiming to be a fugitive eco-terrorist named Brian Stark; claiming that he's been hiding out, from both the Feds and the Russian mob, by _posing_ as "Gregor Buza;" and claiming that his old man, Anton Stark, is a self-hating werewolf-turned-psychiatrist!<p>

"You poor bastard!" I muttered: "What the frig did they do to you?"

**MEANWHILE, IN DOCTOR STARK'S OFFICE. . .**

The response from the voice on the other end of the speaker phone was immediate and unequivocal.

"What kind of baloney are you trying to hand me, Stark? Do you have D'Amour in custody, there, or don't you?"

"We have his corporeal body, Mr. Director. But, either he's memorized an elaborate bogus story, through previous hypno-conditioning, or. . ."

"Or what?"

"Or his body is currently occupied by a yulan-jin. A subspecies of kuei-jin, or Asian vampire, that can astrally project from one host body to another. Hence, the Sino-Japanese portmanteau, which roughly translates as 'soul jumper!' If such is the case, here, then we have the first known occurrence of one of these creatures in the Occident."

"Find out," replied the Director: "One way or the other. . .at all costs."

**HARRY D'AMOUR'S P. O. V.**

"OK," I said: "You've convinced me that you know I'm really Brian Stark. But's what this about my family being in danger?"

"Please, do not take me for a fool," replied Merrick: " We both know your son's disappearance was most likely arranged by the Sitka Apparat as a means of luring you out of hiding. And, obviously, it worked!"

"Of course, it did!" I retorted: "I might not be the real-world equivalent of Mike Brady. But, I still love my son enough, in my own way, to trade my life for his."

Merrick shook his head: "The Russians will never settle for just that. They'll want to massacre both sides of your wife's entire family just to set an example for anyone else who might be tempted to steal from them. Even unintentionally!"

"So what do you suggest I do? Have the governor call out the National Guard to occupy Dos Pueblos and baby-sit the birthday party?"

"Nothing so dramatic," the Englishman conceded: "Though I have the glimmerings of an idea that might be just as effective."

**MEANWHILE, BACK AT BENTLEY HIGH SCHOOL (FROM SAM BECKETT'S P. O. V.). . .**

The last period of the school day was gym period. And, for the girls of the varsity squad, this meant cheer practice. So back I went, inside Lynne Parker's sports bra! Which meant I didn't see daylight again until about quarter of three. Fifteen minutes after school let out for the day.

At which point, Lynne asked which of the cheerleaders wanted me all to herself for the weekend. And, immediately, three right hands shot up! Specifically; those of Debbie Wong, Wanda New Moon, and Suzie Kamanawanaleia. Lynne just laughed.

"Okay, okay! I'll tell you what. You three do ' _Rock/Paper/Scissors_ ' for him. Whoever wins best two out of three gets him for tonight. The others can then compete to see who gets him for tomorrow night. With the third-place contestant getting him Sunday night, by default. Agreed?"

It was Debbie who wound up being my Friday night custodian, while Suzie and Wanda won custody of me, in that order. Yet, just before handing me over, Lynne removed the Scotch tape from both my mouth and my upper torso. Only to put a peculiar-looking black leather band around my waist. Complete with a silvery-looking padlock!

"What's this?" asked Debbie.

Lynne grinned: "One of my mom's spare anti-barking collars. She uses them to keep her Chihuahua quieter than a basenji! Every time it tries to bark up a storm over nothing, a voice-activated circuit is completed and. . .ZAP! Instant electric shock. A mild one, of course. But, still strong enough to make the ratty-looking bitch keep its mouth shut! So it should do just as good a job with him."

**Have a Happy One, all!**

**Glossary**

*Grey seal (Halichoerus grypus): native to both sides of the North Atlantic, this pinniped marine mammal is also known as the horsehead seal. A fact which might also make it the basis for all those Scottish and Irish legends about "water horses."

Metis: Garou euphemism for the children born of two werewolf parents. Such unions are forbidden, by most of the Garou tribes, as the offspring are usually born sterile and physically misshapen.

Theurge: the wizarding caste/auspice of a Garou tribe, made of up those born under a crescent moon.


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30.**

**DOS PUEBLOS, CALIFORNIA**

**(SEPT. 18, 1993)**

**SAM BECKETT'S P. O. V.**

Debbie Wong and I spent all of Friday evening getting to know each other. Yes, it's true that I couldn't speak with her, directly. As the electroshock Chihuahua collar around my waist prevented it! But, as luck would have it, all the girls on the Bentley High School senior varsity cheersquad had learned a variety of sign language from their Native American co-captain, Wanda New Moon. So, when Debbie had rhetorically asked me (once she had smuggled me up to her bedroom, after school) if I knew any sign language, I was overjoyed to gesticulate the symbol for "yes!"

Thus, I was able to answer some of the questions I had not been given a fair chance to respond to, back in the girls' locker room, initially following my shrinkage.

"Controlled proton decay?" Debbie had echoed, half-aloud: "What the frig are you talking about, Chris?"

That's when it suddenly came back to me that I was stuck in the body of a hormonally confused teenage boy named Chris Caulder. So, I replied with a half-truth. Specifically, that I (meaning Chris) had read about the concept in a science fiction story. The whole truth being that, after the first time I had read FANTASTIC VOYAGE, I had debated with my old collegiate mentor, Sebastian LoNicro, whether or not physical miniaturization of a human body was possible in the real world. And he had replied that the only feasible way of accomplishing such a thing, in his mind, would be to convert some of the human body's protons into neutral pions and neutrinos!

In any case, the time finally came for Debbie to turn in. So, she put me to "bed," first. . .in her top dresser drawer. When I woke up, the next morning, it was only because Debbie had awakened before me and opened the drawer!

"Good morning, Chris! Sorry if you're still groggy, sleepyhead. But, I have to get dressed for cheer practice."

That blew away all my remaining mental fog. Is that all these girls did, in their spare time; practice cheering?! Some of that incredulity must have appeared on my face (my diminished height, not withstanding). Because, she laughed softly to herself, as she explained:

"It's for Matt Hamilton's birthday party, Monday night. He's turning one hundred! And, the varsity squad will be performing a special cheer in his honor."

Consequently, Debbie was soon wearing a blue sweatsuit (with white stripes down the sides of the pants) over her short-sleeved purple T-shirt and yellow jogging shorts. With me tucked into the right inner pocket of her sweat jacket, so she could hide me from sight at the breakfast table, until it was safe for her to sneak me some Cheerio loops soaked in milk. After that, she was picked up in a VW mini-bus driven by the object of Chris Caulder's unrequited affection.

Marie Stark.

**HALF-WAY INN,**

**ROOM 502**

**(7:30 A.M./PST)**

**HARRY D'AMOUR'S P. O. V.**

When I woke up, it was to the sound of someone knocking on my hotel room door. And, as I made my way over to open it, I looked at myself in the mirror over the front room dresser. Sure enough; I was still in the body of Brian Stark alias Gregor Buza. And, equally sure enough, the person I saw through the peephole of the door was Merrick Jamison-Smythe!

"I thought mad dogs and Englishmen slept until noon," I half-seriously joked as I let him in.

"My apologies, Mr. Stark. If my idea is to work, however, we must initiate it as swiftly as possible! And, it is now half past ten on the East Coast."

It turns out he was calling the Bostonian chapter of a secret society called the Legacy. The Watchers' Council being a semi-autonomous offshoot thereof. Or, at least, that's how Merrick summarized it while waiting for the phone call to go through.

"You mean, somebody actually watches you Watchers?" I could not resist asking.

"In a manner of speaking," he replied with a smirk and a wink.

It was at this point that someone must have finally picked up the phone in Boston. Because, Merrick instantly grew serious.

"Tangina? It's me. Is Becky Granger available for a special assignment?"

**SAN FRANCISCO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT  
>SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA<br>(SEPTEMBER 18, 1993)  
><strong>  
>Thirteen years earlier, needing a respite from the so-called "Game" of headhunting incessantly played by her fellow Immortals, Cassandra Crescent Moon, last of the White Howlers, had emigrated to Honolulu, Hawaii. Between the various Polynesian religious sites, and the famous tropical climate (which would make the long coats, traditionally worn by most Immortals, rather conspicuous), she thought her head would be safe for a time. And, she was right! For eight wonderful years, the only unusual excitement that crossed her flight path (as helicopter tour guide "Irene Gorley") was in the form of mortal criminals being apprehended by two ex-Chicago cops with her aerial assistance.<p>

All that changed, however, after the murders of Stringfellow Hawke, his brother Saint John (usually pronounced "Sinjin"), and their mutual friend Josephine Santini!

In 1988, this trio had used a high-tech helicopter gunship code-named "Airwolf" to shoot down a band of high-flying mercenaries called the Sky Sharks. It seems these mercenaries had been hired by a certain Mexican druglord to safeguard his shipments from DEA interdiction! Unfortunately, for them, the only other survivor of the ensuing dogfight with Airwolf was the Sky Sharks' leader and trainer; a former East German Mig fighter-pilot named Hans Schleigel. And, following his arrest, he agreed to name names in exchange for full immunity and witness protection.

That agreement sealed his fate, as he was subsequently killed by the Order of Teraka! Along with the Federal marshals who had been guarding him. . .and most of Team Airwolf.

The inverted crosses that had been posthumously carved on the faces, of their exsanguinated bodies, had been the work of a sociopathic Caitiff named Penn. And Major "Mike Rivers" (formerly with RCAF-NORAD) spent the next two years hunting him down. But, as the Order of Teraka were notorious for protecting their own, "Rivers" had been forced to ask Cassandra for help. Help that the White Howler theurge was all too happy to give!

Between their own abilities, and Airwolf's, Penn was eventually tracked down and slain. To show his gratitude for all her help, "Rivers" bequeathed Airwolf to Cassandra. The former faking his death, so he could later resurface, in Chicago, as Detective "Nick Knight." As for Airwolf? Cassandra flew the formidable gunship back to Oahu. Hiding it in a cavern near the ruins of an old Polynesian temple, and making sure to keep it properly maintained on a regular basis. And, a good thing, too!

For, twelve hours earlier, Cassandra had been paid a visit by the astral body of an old friend: Verbena Lifeweaver Eunice Saint Clair.

"I need your help, Cassie. Help rescuing my grandson, Brian Stark, from banality!"

That was why Airwolf was now refueling in Frisco. So, Cassandra could continue her cross-country flight. . .to Hansen's Island, South Carolina.

* * * * *

**HARRY D'AMOUR'S P. O.V.  
><strong>  
>After Merrick made his phone call, I made one, of my own. The guy who answered was now going by the name of J. J. York. A character actor in made-for-video horror films. But, I could hear the sudden tenseness in his voice when I asked to speak. . .to Eric Cord.<p>

"I'm sorry," he said (after a two-second awkward pause that seemed to last forever): "You must have the wrong number."

"I'm a mutual friend of Harry's!" I quickly told him, before he could put down his receiver, adding my full name for further proof.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" he finally ventured to ask.

"You told him that if he ever needed your help, you'd lend it. As it was the least you could do, in return for his helping _you_ put Nicholas Remy out of your misery!"

The two of us had been alone when Eric had made me that promise. So, I was sure he'd conclude that there was only way a "complete stranger" would be able to quote him, verbatim.

"I take it Harry's in major trouble?" Eric responded.

"If that's your definition of a top-secret government nuthouse," I replied: "Then, yeah. And, I need all the help I can get, busting him out!"

**HANSEN'S ISLAND, S.C.**

**(FRANK PARKER'S P. O. V)**

I could only stand idly by as the orderlies (armed with TASER's) took my new roommate away for a second- -and more intensive- -session with Dr. Stark.

**tbc**

**Glossary.**

**Becky Granger:** Kristy Swanson's character on the 1980's NBC medical drama, NIGHTINGALES.

**Tangina:** the parapsychologist played by the late, great Zelda Rubinstein in the POLTERGEIST movies.


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

**By Carycomic**

**SOMEWHERE BETWEEN CALIFORNIA AND SOUTH CAROLINA**

**SEPTEMBER 18, 1993 (2:00 A. M./CST) **

Cassandra looked at the astral projection of Eunice St. Clair that suddenly materialized within Airwolf's shotgun seat.

"You're back! So tell me, when did you find time to have a grandson?"

Eunice ruefully smiled. "Remember when Edgar Cayce founded the Initiative, at Stanford University, on 'Black Jack' Pershing's orders?"

Cassandra did, indeed.

An ultra-conservative element of the Celestial Chorus had objected to the formation of that Federal agency.* Thinking it a blasphemy for men of secular power to be toying with supernatural forces. So, they had dispatched a cadre of Marist Black Furies to wipe out the blasphemers!

Fortunately, a Qualmi from Los Gatos, California, had alerted Cassandra to the danger. And while the Immortalized White Howler had managed to teleport to the scene of battle, relatively swiftly, she had still found it very difficult to wipe out the lycanthropic religious fanatics, single-handedly! Yet, wipe them out she did. With the only casualty being Cayce's critically wounded research assistant.

Nathaniel Stark of Eureka, California.

Cassandra promptly brought the man to Eunice's boarding house, where the latter used all her skills (both medical and mystical) to nurse him back to health. In the process, the two of them fell in love. But, it was only after their marriage, and the subsequent birth of their daughter, that she learned the full truth about him.

Nathaniel was a changeling of the Selkie Folk who had come to House Luxor, of the Hermetic Brotherhood, via House Merinita!

"The Seelie Court had the same concerns, about the Initiative, as the Celestial Chorus," he had explained to Eunice: "We were more content just to spy on them, however. To make sure they didn't progress too fast."

So, in return, she had told Nathaniel of her own descent; a Norman Fenrir Kinswoman, of theurge auspice, who had studied with the Verbenae.

"We would have been glad to raise our daughter in San Francisco," Eunice continued: "But, the Qualmi who had warned me about the over-zealots of the Merciful Mother also told me that the other Black Fury septs had not taken the deaths of their Garou sisters kindly! So, Nathaniel and I emigrated to Fair Isle in the northern Shetlands. . .to live there as bird wardens."

Any hope of spending the rest of their lives there, however, were dashed by the outbreak of World War II. More specifically, the founding of a combination radar station and air defense base, as a result thereof. They, and the rest of the island's population of circa four hundred, were evacuated to London for their own safety. But, Nathaniel and Eunice did not take it as hard as the others. Because, living in London meant they could see their now fully-grown daughter, Jacqueline!

Not to mention, her newlywed husband.

"And, it's this same man (my son-in-law)," concluded Eunice, ". . .who is currently endangering his own son!"

**HANSEN'S ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA**

**SEPTEMBER 19, 1993 (12:11 A. M./EST)**

Two crewmen jumped on to the pier as their captain carefully docked the ferry boat. The latter spinning the wheel, while the former securely tied and knotted the mooring ropes. A third crewman then alerted them to the lowering of the gang plank. Consequently, the other two were stationed on either side of the plank's bottom end to lend an additionally balancing hand to the ferry's disembarking passengers. Two men and two women.

One of them wearing a straightjacket.

"Halt!" a marine guard suddenly called out of the darkness. "Identify yourselves and your purpose."

To emphasize that he meant business, he partially raised a semi-automatic Beretta in nine millimeter, in a two-handed grip, while his identically armed partner shined a flashlight on the squinting quartet.

"Dr. Malcolm Scorpio," replied the brown-haired man: "Fort Charles Army Base, Long Island, New York. This is my nurse, Michelle, and my orderly, Sam. They're helping me escort a patient transfer named Becky Granger. . ."

"Buffy!" screamed the blonde woman in the straight jacket: "I keep telling you; my name is Buffy! Buffy Summers! The Vampire Slayer!"

Tbc…


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32.**

**By Carycomic!**

**HANSEN'S ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA**

**SEPT. 19, 1993 (12:25 A.M./EST)**

Gwendolyn Post had kept asking the same thing during the boat ride over.

"Neither the Council nor the Initiative are going to like this."

So, finally, Hank Summers got fed up to tell her, "I don't care what they like! I answer to House Fortunae, not to them. And, I've gone to great lengths to keep my work and my home life separate. So, if Merrick says my daughter's life is in danger from this Harry D'Amour staying here, then you'd better believe I'm going to do my best to get that guy out of here! You just make sure that Merinita glamour spell is working properly when you finally cast it."

She assured him that it would be. Then, to change the subject, she asked a slightly more personal question.

"Is it true that you're dating, again?"

Hank nodded: "I met her at a divorcees' support group, believe it or not! Her name is Lynnette Crandall, and she was there at the advice of her sister. An up-and-coming chef who used to be married to a cop!"

Gwendolyn snorted, derisively: "I wouldn't be caught dead, married to a police officer! They're as controlling as the Watchers' Council."

Five minutes later, they had docked at the island's only pier. With the nervous young actor, J. J. York, swiftly composing himself just before their confrontation with two military policemen. Now, they were at the main entrance to the "V. A." hospital's main entrance, waiting for admittance into the lobby. When that admittance finally came, York repeated the same story he had given to the MP's. Following which, he handed over the carefully fabricated paperwork to the frowning orderly who was second-in-charge of the nightshift.

"Come on in. But, you'll have to wait by the desk while I call the doctor on duty."

"Certainly, certainly," chanted York.

**BENTLEY HIGH SCHOOL GYM**

**DOS PUEBLOS, CALIFORNIA**

**(TWELVE HOURS EARLIER)**

**SAM BECKETT'S P. O. V.**

"OK, everybody," said Lynne Parker: "Get ready, L-stands. . .up!"

The varsity cheerleaders on top of the human pyramid, before her, did as instructed. The one on Lynne's left extending her left leg to form a capital letter "h" in conjunction with the right leg of the cheerleader on Lynne's right.

"What's that stand for?" she now demanded.

"Ham-il-ton," chanted the cheerleaders on the ground (who were doubling as spotters).

"Beg your pardon?"

"Ham-il-ton!"

"I can't hear you. Louder now."

"HAM-IL-TON!"

Whereupon, the spotters yelled and applauded as the pyramid disassembled itself. And, fortunately for me, Debbie Wong had been one of the spotters. If only because I would sincerely have hated being tied to one of the sneakers of the cheerleaders jumping down to the ground (thereby putting the "ouch" in "crouch")!

In any case, Lynne now gave everyone a lunch break, leaving Wanda New Moon and Suzy Kamanawanaleia a chance to come over and talk with Debbie.

Wanda (as I've already noted) was Native American. Pomo tribe, I think; with long brown hair and coppery skin. While Suzy had black hair (cut-and-bobbed at the shoulders) plus that swarthy complexion that seemed to make all women of Polynesian heritage exotic and alluring.

"So, how was he, Debbie?" asked the latter.

"Yeah," added Wanda: "Was he a perfect little gentleman. . .or what?"

Debbie (who had already stooped down to untie me from her sneaker) stood back up and showed me off to them.

"Why don't you answer them for yourself, Chris?"

And, of course, since I was still wearing that Chihuahua shock collar around my waist, I once more replied in sign language: "I never laid a finger on her. She's as pure as driven snow."

"Aw-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w!" they chorused: "How sweet!"

Debbie then asked Suzy if she wanted custody of me, right then, or after the practice session.

"Tell you what," Suzy declared. "I'll take temporary charge of him just for the lunch break. So, I can practice feeding him. After that, you can have him back until the end of rehearsal."

"Sounds like a plan.

As I naturally had no say in this arrangement of my prison schedule, I did my best to tune them out. In doing so, I noticed a strange figure looking at the girls from one of the open doors to the boys' locker room. He was roughly middle-aged, with a brownish-blonde beard (and matching ponytail) that was slowly developing traces of gray. And he was built like a wrestler! Barely fitting into the dark blue janitor's cover-all's he was wearing.

**HARRY D'AMOUR'S P. O. V.**

"Mr. Buza? Mr. Buza, can you hear me?"

I had to restrain myself from instinctively removing the ear piece that made sure no one else could hear the British accent that had nearly deafened me over the CB walkie-talkie. One of two that the teenage girl, Michelle Webster, had managed to "find" someplace.

"Yes, I can hear you, Merrick! Not so loud, please."

"Sorry. I'm just not used to these contraptions."

"Whatever. Why did you call?"

"Oh, yes! Right. I was just wondering if your surveillance (ill-advised as I still think it might be) had borne fruit, yet."

"Roger, that!"

I raised the so-called 'opera glasses' to my eyes.

"I can see the little guy, right now. One of the cheerleaders is carrying him in her cupped hands. Two others are all-but-drooling over him! How about you?"

"Becky Granger will be sent southward, in the custody of Gwendolyn Post and Henry Summers. Gwen's a fellow Watcher, while Mr. Summers is sort of a. . .liaison officer. . .between the Initiative and the Order of Hermes. If anyone can extract Mr. D'Amour from his unenviable predicament, it's the three of them. Although, it will take some time for them to get there."

He then muttered (partly to himself) about a flying time of two hours from Boston to New York City. Then, another three or four hours, by rental car, to South Carolina via the Delmarva Peninsula.

"Guesstimated time of arrival?" he concluded: "A little past twenty-one hundred hours, tonight. Which will give them two-and-a-half hours to rest and recuperate before they meet the boat to the island."

"And that air support you mentioned, earlier?"

"It should reach the island around the same time they're ready to leave it. Approximately three hundred hours, tomorrow morning."

Merrick then told me that I had better get out of there before someone reported a "peeping Tom" to the cops. So, I did. Because, even though I didn't admit it to him, I did feel like someone was watching me! Yet, even as I craned my neck left and right, I couldn't see anyone in the immediate vicinity besides me and the cheerleaders.

Just the same, I patted Brian Stark's Superstar (its holster concealed beneath these cover-all's) for a small measure of comfort.

**TOP FLOOR OF SHIELDCORP (2024 A. D.) **

Zoe got down on one knee as she entered Lothos' private "office."

"Master!"

"Yes, my child?"

"I bring word from Thames. . .fresh from the imaging chamber."

The A. I. that now ran the world told her to rise and report.

"Brian Stark has finally arrived in Dos Pueblos," she continued: "Thames was monitoring Sam Beckett's 'incarceration,' and observed Stark doing likewise! He wants to know whether or not he should switch surveillance from the former to the latter."

"Definitely not. His death has to remain as close to the original timeline as possible! Therefore, you shall leap back into a suitable host body, of the time, and keep an eye on him, yourself."

"Yes, Master."

Whereupon, she bowed once more, before turning and leaving.

**HANSEN'S ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA**

**SEPT. 19, 1993 (12:35 A. M./EST)**

"What seems to be her problem?" asked the orderly (who sounded rather bored).

J. J. York- -nee Eric Cord- - immediately began reciting the fabricated back story.

"She had some kind of psychotic break after awakening from a nightmare, last night. Claimed she was a high school girl stuck in a padded cell in an alternate reality. . .three years in the future! So, when her top sergeant tried to restrain her, she went into a violent rage."

"It took half a dozen MP's to get her into a straight jacket."

"So, why bring her, here?!" the orderly now demanded: "Wouldn't Walter Reed's psych ward have been a lot closer?"

"I was ordered to bring her here after she began babbling about something called. . .the Initiative."

This seemed to rouse the orderly from his boredom.

"Wait right here. I'll get Dr. Stark."

Whereupon, he got up and walked through a pair of remote-controlled, thin-windowed doors marked "Restricted Admittance." Eric, watching him go, slowly counted to thirty before turning to "Sam" and "Michelle" (the aliases Merrick had suggested) and giving them a subtle thumb's up with his right hand at waist level.

Phase 1 had been completed.

**tbc**

_One more thing, Serena Scott-Thompson, of "Gwendolyn Post" fame, also played the second ex-wife _

_of NASH BRIDGES, during Season 1 of that CBS crime drama. While Suki Kaiser played _

_"Lynnette Summers," the sister of the first ex-wife (a pre-SMALLVILLE Annette _

_O'Toole)._


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33.

By Carycomic

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

MARCH 20, 2024 A. F.*

*ALTERNATE FUTURE

Willow Rosenberg (Precept of Boston House) bent down to look at the holographic image being magically projected upward by the scrying stone on the table before her. Said image being that of a rather attractive woman with short-bobbed hair that appeared to be black-dyed-blonde.

"Who is she?"

"Her name's Veruca Danislaw," replied Oz: "And all the Greenswords think she's a Black Fury ragabash of metis birth (hence, her Ronin status). But, in reality, she's a Gangrel dhampir. . .of Shadowlord Kinfolk descent!"

"Hmph!" snorted Willow (in grudging admiration): "Clever. Is she spying for Shieldcorp?"

Oz shook his head: "Nope! Believe it or not, she's playing Mata Hari for this guy."

He nodded at Tara McClay, who waved her hands over the image. Changing it to that of a male humanoid figure in a white robe.

"He calls himself 'Lord Nyx,' " continued Oz: "And he claims to be a centuries-old antitribu Tremere. But, we think he might actually be a koldunic methuselah of Old Clan Tzimice."

Tara nodded, adding: "They're the reactionaries who refused to join the Sabbat with the rest of their Kindred. They're also the ones who saved the Danislaws from total extermination by turning them into a Gangrel bloodline! Hence, the bloodline swearing eternal loyalty to them."

Willow shook her head in puzzlement: "But, for what purpose?"

"We think it has something to do with a certain construction project down in Australia. Tara?"

Another wave of hands changed the second image to one that was totally unexpected. A tall, whitish-colored, roughly cylindrical object with the word "Hydrax" emblazoned on it in black lettering.

"A rocket ship?!" exclaimed the redheaded Wiccan.

Oz could not resist grinning: "Yep! You're looking at the Hydra X. Similar to the old Saturn V. But, three times bigger. . .and ten times more powerful in lifting off."

Willow's next question was predictable. . .but understandable.

"What's it for?"

"Well, according to my contacts in the Sons of Ether," Oz replied: ". . .it was originally supposed to be built on the Moon! As the first step in a long-range plan to colonize Mars. Luna's lower gravity equaling a less-strenuous amount of G-forces, for the colonists, on take-off. But, of course, once the O-Shield went up, that plan was abandoned."

"Then, who's building it, now? And, why?"

Oz was a bit grim-faced as he was only able to answer the second of those two questions.

"From what I've managed to weasel out of Veruca? When the O-Shield's generating plant blows up, the ship will lift off. . .with a couple hundred vampires and their ghouls on board. Bound for someplace where the sun don't shine as brightly."

Both Tara and Willow's hands flew to their mouths in horrified amazement.

"Holy Noah's Ark, Batman," muttered the latter.

It was something she remembered her junior high school classmate, Xander Harris, had once said, the last time she had seen him, twenty-one years earlier. Prior to his tragic death.

DOS PUEBLOS, CALIFORNIA

SEPTEMBER 18, 1993

"Xander!" exclaimed Mrs. Harris: "Stop picking at your food. Eat it!"

The two of them were in the coffee shop/diner, next door to the Halfway Inn, having a late lunch.

"I still don't understand why Dad couldn't come with us," the twelve year-old youngster bitterly complained.

"I told you, already. Your Great-Uncle Jacob wouldn't allow it! It's a miracle your Great-Aunt Celeste persuaded him to let us come, in your father's place."

Xander just sighed, and looked out the window. His left hand propping up his chin, disconsolately. He perked up, however, when he saw a man and woman get out of a taxi cab in front of the guest registration office. One of them a man, with wavy black hair; the other a woman with long brown hair. Both of them, dressed identically.

Black slacks; black shoes; black leather jackets. Why, even their luggage was black!

"These guys look like secret agents," he whispered to himself.

Five minutes later, Nick Sutherland came back out.

"Well?" demanded Katherine.

"We're officially registered as Mr. and Mrs. Ben Hamilton. Room 304."

"Excellent! Help me with the bags."

"Yes, dear," he replied.

The exaggerated tone of meek (one might even say "_whipped_") submissiveness he put into his voice earned him a look-of-daggers from Katherine. But, she refused to give him the dignity of even reprimanding him in private, once they had closed the hotel room door behind them.

She would simply impale the middle of their double bed, with a flicked-open switchblade, later that night!

"Any idea when we're supposed to meet with Merrick?" her boyfriend now asked.

Katherine looked at her watch: "About five minutes from now. In that coffee shop, downstairs."

Meanwhile, in Room 302, Zane Zaminsky was sounding whinier than a puppy dog.

"Do we _have_ to go shopping for that present, this afternoon? UC-Sunnydale at Western State will be on TV in five minutes!"

"Oh, I'm more than willing to go shopping alone, Zane," replied Char with faux-cheerfulness. "It's just that, with you by my side, to help me with the packages? I just know I'd be less prone to tension headaches. . .later tonight."

There was no immediate response to this thinly-veiled threat. Which made Char somewhat concerned after thirty long seconds!

"Zane? Are you even listening to me?!"

"Y-Yes, dear! " exclaimed Zoey improvising a reply, post-leap in. "Whatever you say."

**Tbc**

_**Special note:**__ in medieval Europe, whenever an aristocratic bride-to-be was being taken to a geographically distant fiancé', her male bodyguard would usually place an unsheathed sword between himself and the alleged virgin, at bedtime. To insure there was no "accidental" rolling over in either one's sleep! _

_Katherine's switchblade merely updates that custom._


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34.**

**By Carycomic**

**HANSEN'S ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA**

**SEPTEMBER 19, 1993 (1:15 A.M./EST)**

"My paternal grandfather was Sir John Saumarez," whispered Hank Summers. "A British actor-turned-amateur sleuth who got his start at both by working undercover, for the British Secret Service, before and during World War I. Usually, by posing as an American adventurer named _'Aurelius Smith_!' And, in the course of his missions, he occasionally crossed paths with- -and fought alongside- -such Legacy luminaries as Dr. Carnacki* and Sar Dubnotal."

"Later, during World War II, my dad followed in his footsteps. Serving in the RAF as both a fighter-pilot and intelligence agent code-named _'the Grey Shadow_.' In fact, he met my mom on one of his earliest missions! And, when they married and moved to the States, after the war, he was recruited into House Fortunae by a paranormal investigator named Godrey Usher."

"So, in other words," replied Gwendolyn Post, with a grin. "This sort of thing runs in your family."

Hank grinned back. "It's beginning to feel that way."

Yet, his face grew serious, again, as he looked at his watch.

"It sure took them less time to vet him for membership, though."

"Well, Merrick did anticipate these people taking time to confirm or deny our cover story," countered the Englishwoman

"I know," said Hank: "But, still. . ."

It was at this moment that three things happened, simultaneously. First; Airwolf took off from where Cassandra had touched down, inside Congaree River State Park (twenty-four hours earlier), in order to conserve the gunship's fuel as well as catch up on some sleep. Second; Dr. Anton Stark had finally verified that there was no Fort Charles Army Base on Long Island (or anywhere else in the New York City Metropolitan Area, for that matter). And, third; Precept Tangina of Boston House (sensing this development) telepathically ordered the activation of Becky Granger's combat mode.

Consequently, the young woman who had been declaring herself to be the "real" Buffy Summers. . .tore through her straight jacket like it was made of tissue paper.

The not-so-good doctor immediately tried to order her sedated. But, the orderlies, burly as they were, proved no match for her superhuman strength and speed. The same strength and speed which she then employed against Stark, himself, as she pushed him -desk and all- through the back wall of his second floor office!

Leaving a gaping hole big enough for her to escape through. . .along with a dossier on Harry D'Amour.

To their credit, the guards were not slow in responding to the klaxons activated by the one on duty in the lobby after what he had witnessed on his monitors. Yet, the ensuing confusion was ample enough to allow Hank Summers and Gwendolyn Post to go into action. For, at a nod from the former, the latter began muttering in a language that bore a vague similarity to Latin. Though, it was far older!

Consequently, the two visitors now looked more like two of the guards who had met them and Eric Cord at the docks.

"You get him outside," instructed Hank. "...and pretend you're looking for Becky. I'm going to look for D'Amour."

Gwendolyn nodded and took the video character actor with her. At the same time, Becky Granger had double-backed inside the building by tearing a fire exit door off its hinges! Professor Tangina, having telepathically seen D'Amour's room number in the dossier through the chip-implanted girl's eyes. She therefore ordered Becky to go there, accordingly. Although, Becky's progress in that direction did not go unopposed.

Hank, however, helped her as best he could when he finally caught up to her.

**FRANK PARKER'S BEDROOM**

I was having a beautiful dream (in which I was James Bond, and every hottie in the Octopussy Circus was fighting over me after I'd been shrunken by some stolen mystical jewel) when the alarms woke me up.

"What the frig. . .? ! Hey, Harry/Brian/Whatever-your-name-is; what's up?"

My multiple-personality roommate was staring outside our chicken-wired window.

"I can't be sure. But, I think there's a chopper headed this way."

"Airwolf to Pathfinders," Cassandra recited. "Airwolf to Pathfinders. Do you read; over?"

"Pathfinder 2, here," replied Gwendolyn. "We read you, Airwolf. Over."

"ETA, one minute and closing. Where would you like me to open up for business? Over."

"Why not start with their communications and electrical generator? Over."

"Roger, that! Airwolf, over and out."

Cassandra immediately began humming "_Fly, Robin, Fly_," by Sylvester Levay, as she put the formidable gunship into a power dive. Forty-five seconds afterward, every light on the island (indoors and out) went dark.

**FRANK PARKER'S POINT OF VIEW**

When Harry and Friends told me that a helicopter was coming, I naturally scoffed.

"It's not a black one, is it?"

Hey! I couldn't help it. When you've been in a place like this, as long as I have, you hear all kinds of conspiracy theories. Some of them from guys even crazier than me! But, a minute later, I had to change my mind when I heard this thunderous explosion.

Followed by all the lights going out.

The next thing I knew, this cute little blonde in her late teens/early twenties came barging through the locked door of our bedroom like she was a female Terminator or something! Although, the guy following her seemed to take such things for granted. In fact, the only thing that came out of his mouth was the question as to which of us was Harry D'Amour.

I instantly pointed to my roomie. "He is ...when he's at home."

**tbc**

***Sir John Saumarez**: amateur sleuth created by Helen Simpson (copyright 1931).

**Aurelius Smith**: crime-fighting former secret agent created by R.T.M. Scott (copyright 1923).

**Thomas Carnacki**: occult detective created by Wm. Hope Hodgson (copyright 1910).

**Sar Dubnotal**: occult detective created by Norbert Sevestre (copyright 1909).

**The Grey Shadow**: high-flying master spy created by George E. Rochester (copyright 1936).

**Godfrey Usher**: occult detective created by Herman Landon (copyright 1917).

My thanks to Jess Nevins and his "Pulp & Adventure Heroes" website  .org.


End file.
